Don't Give Me Songs
by wistfulwatcher
Summary: "It whistles through the ghosts still left behind."  Peri/Post-apocalypse.  Will/Rachel overall, Will/Emma, Rachel/Other, also, several different pairings throughout, will add when relevant. T for now, will become M. MAJOR character deaths.
1. try not to get worried

[1.1] try not to get worried

|DAY 84|

His grip tightens on the steering wheel and his foot eases off the gas pedal when he catches sight of the speedometer: 73 mph. The old car shakes and stutters but falls rapidly down to 55 mph before he puts his foot back on the gas. It feels like a slow crawl but he looks over at her in the passenger seat, where she's looking out of her open window.

The warm summer air whips her long hair around her face and he takes a moment to watch the strand that seems caught on her lip before it manages to shake itself free. His sigh is silent as he turns back to the windshield and flips his headlights on as the sky darkens.

He's about to roll down his own window but the sight of a green road sign in front of them causes him to pause. His eyes fall on her again, and he watches her face carefully for a reaction, a spark, something.

Nothing.

She doesn't react to their location and he figures _it's ok_, _it doesn't matter anymore anyway_, before he looks back to the road and spots smoke coming from a car that's wrapped itself around a telephone poll a few hundred feet in front of them.

_Another seizure_, he muses but doesn't say aloud, instead shifting his eyes to the car radio when the music stops.

"_The date is August 4__th__, and it's day…" _he stops listening, figures she does, too. He grips the wheel with both hands and pushes his back hard against the seat, stretching his legs. It's been days of road, of desecration and abandoned cars and empty gas stations, but he watches her out of the corner of his eye and figures there's no excuse to stop. If she doesn't need a break then neither does he.

The muffler is dragging so loudly and he thinks he might be waiting for it to break, for it to finally give out. It doesn't. Instead it just aches and groans and sparks as he zips down the asphalt at 67 mph.

He takes it back down to 55.

"…_lost its last citizen today. The death toll has officially reached—_" Her fingers are quick to turn the dial back to music, and when the smooth jazz comes on he finally turns on the cruise control.

When he looks over at her she is looking out her window at empty cars and twitching bodies and he thinks she should maybe close her window.

He says nothing.


	2. try not to turn onto problems

A/N: This is definitely something new for me! I hope you guys like it. This fic will be divided into six parts, with two (and in one part, three) chapters in each, so I will be posting chapters only when the entire part is finished (I hope that made sense!)

Also, the title is from "Life's a Show," from the Buffy the Vampire Episode "Once More, With Feeling," the summary is from "Left Behind" from Spring Awakening, and the titles of both chapters in part one are from "Everything's Alright" from Jesus Christ Superstar.

[1.2: try not to turn onto problems that upset you]

|DAY 2|

Will walks into the choir room, eyes focused on the sheet music in his hands. "All right guys, today we're going to be trying something new," he looks up as he starts to hand out the music.

When he reaches Rachel's spot on the end, he catches her with her phone, flipped open as she texts. "Put the phone away, Rachel," he scolds half-heartedly, as he catches Mike trying to teach Finn some handshake in the upper row.

It's an odd order directed at her, she is usually scolding the others that it's time for rehearsal and they should be forgoing other distractions. But he's already five minutes late due to a copier problem and Nationals is just a few weeks away, so he doesn't dwell on it.

She looks up at him, blushing, and apologizes before rushing on to explain that her dad just got back from Chicago and he has some air sickness. He waves her off, telling her it's fine and hands her the music, half smiling when she passes it along with a nod.

"OK, guys, we're coming up on crunch time, and we've got to lock in our ideas." He watches several faces light up as they look at _Seasons of Love _from_ Rent_ printed across the top of their sheet music.

Rachel's brow furrows as she lowers her phone slightly, but then her smile appears at his words and he matches her.

|DAY 5|

Rachel is looking at her phone again when he walks into glee on Monday, his pace much less hurried from the last practice. When she looks up she meets his eyes before closing the phone and putting it away. "Good afternoon, Mr. Schue."

(She's trying to beat him to the punch.)

He smiles back at her with a nod and she looks relieved.

Rachel's smile doesn't stay for long, and Will notices that she's unusually quiet when she's not singing.

(Not only once does he glance up, looking for that damned annoying piece of duct tape, but he doesn't find anything except lowered lashes.)

Practice is uneventful as they run through the number, but by the end of the hour no one seems to have improved much.

(The performance is clean but uninspiring.)

Will asks if they still want _Seasons of Love_, but they all nod and smile, so he just says _OK_ and dismisses them.

He glances over to Rachel's end and notices her texting someone. He doesn't want to pry, but something about the tight press of her lips concerns him.

"Rachel?" She looks up at him as she closes her phone and smiles.

He moves close to her because Sam and Santana and Brittany are still in the room, and he doesn't want to broadcast it if something is wrong.

He asks her if everything is ok, and she just nods, murmurs that her dad wanted her to pick up some cold medicine.

He nods with a small smile and the look of concern he employs for his gleeks far too often, and sets his hand hesitantly on her shoulder.

She smiles back at him shyly, and he drops his hand back quickly.

(Things have never been static between them and he's always on edge around her, just a little uncomfortable.)

()()()

When he gets home he drops his bag in the dining room and goes to the kitchen. There's only one beer left in the refrigerator and he drinks it gratefully.

He's very tired, despite their rehearsal being peaceful.

|DAY 6|

Nationals is only ten days away, but Will isn't too concerned. All of the arrangements are made, their tickets are booked and paid for, their rooms are reserved, and their entrance fee has been mailed and received.

All that's left, now, is nailing down their set list and choreography.

The kids are excited, but not extremely focused, and it worries him at the same time he thinks it might give them an edge.

(They really do seem to flourish when it comes down to crunch time.)

Still, a little security would be nice, so when Will catches sight of Finn coming down the stairs outside of Figgins' office, he waves at him and calls his name with a smile.

There's a pause before Finn looks up at him and Will's brow furrows as Finn narrows his eyes and asks, "Mr. Schue?" before his knees buckle and his books fall down to ground.

(Will's heart starts to beat faster but he isn't sure why, doesn't know what's happening yet.)

Finn crumples and falls to the stairs beneath him. Will can barely process that it's fortunate Finn was standing toward the bottom of the stairwell before he's rushing to Finn on the ground.

His hand settles on Finn's shoulder, and he watches as the jock's eyes flutter in their sockets before his head drops down into unconsciousness.

"Finn?"

No response.

A freshman Will doesn't quite remember from fall semester walks by and he calls to him, tells him to go get Figgins, call 911.

()()()

The wait is too much, and when the EMTs finally arrive, Will's stomach feels like it's been smashed in someone's fist.

They ask him what happened and he relays the confusion, the squinting, and then the knees buckling.

The EMTs exchange a furtive glance, and if Will hadn't been watching them carefully, he would've missed it. He isn't sure why, but their faces in that instant cause the fist to clench his stomach tighter.

They finally wheel Finn out and Will walks back to his office on shaking legs, to call Carole and let her know what happened.

()()()

Will is quiet during lunch, sitting with Emma and Shannon. He tells them what happened to Finn and they both shake their heads.

"You don't know why he fell?" Will shakes his head slowly as he takes a bite of his cookie, and Emma follows her question with a hesitantly picked grape.

It's nothing big, really. Will figures he must have been exhausted, probably pushing himself too far with Prom coming up.

(The thought doesn't sit right.)

Shannon tells them both about her plan for next year's football season, and Emma and Will listen as they finish their lunches.

()()()

Will calls roll in fifth period, his last class before glee. Two students are missing and he marks their names but doesn't dwell too long, the image of Finn falling still fresh in his mind.

()()()

When he enters the choir room the club is all there, whispering and texting, and he rightfully assumes it's about Finn. He tells them what he knows and they seem to settle.

(The air crackles and he doesn't quite buy their tight smiles.)

Rehearsal is strange—they're lacking their male lead, which Artie takes care of quickly, but their female lead seems distracted, not as full of life as she usually is.

He tries to cheer them up, energize them, but with both captains effectively out of commission, he thinks it fails a little.

He realizes that he's almost always had Rachel to back him up. When she wasn't on his side she was furious.

(This time she's just not here, and he knows he's being silly, but it hurts, just a little.)

When they take a break, Rachel pulls her phone out and slips out of the choir room.

He calls them back, but Rachel isn't there yet so they talk amongst themselves.

Will busies himself with the sheet music at the piano, and doesn't look up until he hears Kurt ask Rachel what's wrong.

(She's standing still, in the middle of the room, and he feels the tension in his gut worsen.)

"My dad just went to the hospital. He, he had a seizure."

(A sob catches in her throat and he wants to give her a hug, but she's so far away.)

Kurt is the first across the room, holding her, and Mercedes is quick to lead the others over. The entire club envelops her, even Quinn and Santana. It doesn't matter that they've all had their issues because the kids are family when it comes down to it.

(He wonders where he fits in.)

Will offers to take her to the hospital but she shakes her head and breaks from the crowd to grab her bag. She says her other dad is coming to pick her up, so she leaves, murmuring a thank you to the club.

Puck looks confused, and asks, "I thought those things were rare? My mom's boss just had a seizure yesterday."

Will interrupts and directs their attention back to the song for the last ten minutes, even though they're missing Finn and Rachel.

(Without Rachel it feels pointless.)

|DAY 7|

Will is in his office the next morning before school, grading some papers left over from the night before when Kurt knocks on his door.

He smiles instinctively as he gestures for Kurt to come in, but his lips fall when he doesn't return the gesture. "Kurt, is something wrong?" His stomach tightens like the day before.

"It's Finn. He's still in the hospital."

Will's brows furrow. Kurt doesn't look too shaken, but he doesn't exactly look happy, and that worries him more than the word _hospital_.

"Has Finn woken up? What did the doctors say?"

Kurt tightens his grip on his bag and stands up straighter. "He's in and out of consciousness. He has a fever, and he's been vomiting, so the doctors think he got hit with a bad flu."

Something in the way Kurt says _flu_ doesn't sit right with him, like Kurt doesn't believe it, but he just nods and thanks Kurt for letting him know.

On the way out, Will asks the younger boy to keep him updated, and Kurt pauses in the doorway before nodding with a twitch of his lips.

()()()

Will walks into the teachers' lounge for lunch, smiling when he sees Emma and Shannon laughing. Finn's sickness is still weighing heavily on his mind, and he wonders about the timing of Finn and Rachel's dad getting sick at the same time.

(Their family is taking quite a hit this week.)

"Good afternoon, Will," Emma smiles at him and he feels the tension easing, just a little. Things aren't fixed between them, not by a long shot, at least romantically. Their friendship is being repaired, painfully slowly, but it's something, at least. Emma picks up a grape without wiping it and pops in into her mouth with a smile.

He smiles back.

()()()

Will calls roll in his fourth period class, and he purses his lips when three students are missing.

()()()

Spanish is long today, teaching three new verbs, and he's grateful when glee rolls around.

(He's always grateful for the music.)

He walks into the choir room and everyone has an expression matching Kurt and Rachel; pure distraction. He tries to get their attention but running through the number is like pulling teeth.

Will digs through his sheet music to pull out the Jessie J number the kids have been talking about. He didn't think it was a good idea to introduce another song this close to Nationals, but he needs to get their minds off of Finn.

Finn will be fine, of course.

He hands Rachel the last copy with a gentle smile.

(Her return of the gesture feels wrong, false.)

Their performance is half-hearted, to say the least, and he dismisses them all.

(Rachel is the first one out the door.)

He's collecting the pile of sheet music from the chairs when Kurt comes up to him.

"All of glee is going to stop by the hospital tonight at six, if you want to check on Finn with us."

Will nods, thanks Kurt, and promises to come by.

He's concerned about Finn, of course, but there's also a small thrill that he's being included.

(He never knows where exactly he stands with them.)

()()()

The hospital is crowded, and Will is jostled by nurses and patients when he gets into the lobby. He's surprised, to say the least. Even though Finn has the flu, it's not exactly sickness season.

A woman to his left is holding her forehead like she's burning up.

It takes a moment to spot the club since there are so many people standing, filling out forms, and several EMTs keep walking by. He looks for the ones that came for Finn, but he doesn't really remember much from that event except the image of Finn squinting at him as he dropped his books.

(And he's _really_ tried to remember anything else.)

Finally, though, he catches sight of Quinn leaning against a wall, and sees Mike and Tina next to her.

It's hard to make his way over there, but when he finally does their faces close-up make his breath catch.

"What's wrong?" He knows, of course, what's wrong, why they're there, but their faces are more worried than they had been in glee. It shouldn't be unexpected, really, but it is.

They're supposed to be stopping by to visit Finn, to see him eating tray after tray of jell-o and reassure them all _he's fine_, that he would be back rehearsing tomorrow.

That isn't the face Quinn's making. It isn't the way Mike has his arm wrapped so tight around Tina's shoulder.

"They won't let us back there. Not even Finn's mom," Tina offers, when Quinn only stares at her shoes, and Mike looks at him with a tentative smile.

He doesn't know what else to say, what to reply to that, so he just crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, too, sure that Carole will get this straightened out any moment.

Before too long Santana and Brittany join them, and Puck wheels Artie in a few seconds later, Lauren by his side. Will listens as Tina fills them in, and when a couple in the bench beside them is led away by a nurse, Santana sits down and tells everyone that Mercedes can't make it.

He notices that Sam isn't there, and neither is Rachel.

(He's noticed she's been missing for a while, but _now_ it hits him.)

He wonders if her dad is doing any better, if her whole family is home and together and if she'll go back to her old self in glee tomorrow.

To his left he sees Kurt coming over to them, Blaine at his side, both wearing matching expressions.

(He somehow doubts Rachel will go back to her old self.)

Kurt confirms what he suspects, and tells them that they're still not allowed to go back, but behind the boy he catches sight of Burt and Carole pointing to a swinging door and yelling.

Will stays put for a moment, but he can't help but feel like he should be comforting the kids, letting them know that everything will be fine.

Except he's never been good in moments like this, he never knows what to say, even if he's supposed to be the wise adult. Finally he pushes away from the wall and mutters that he's going to make a phone call, and steps outside for a moment.

The air is _so_ fresh outside that he almost chokes on it, but manages to inhale without incident after a moment.

Will stands there, just outside of the doors, his head a little dizzy. They were just supposed to be stopping by for a visit. It wasn't like—

EMTs are excusing themselves as they try to move around him and he sticks his hands in his pocket and apologizes, moves off to the side.

To his right he hears sobbing, and he doesn't want to invade privacy, but with a sympathetic face he looks over to find the source.

It's Rachel.

She's alone, he thinks, and it breaks his heart to see any of his kids in pain.

(It breaks his heart that it's _always_ her tears he hears.)

He's about to go over, ask her what's wrong, even if the thought of comforting her worries him a little.

(He isn't sure why.)

But a step towards her and he hears, _oh, sweetie, it'll be ok_, as a tall African-American man takes a seat on the bench next to her. It's one of her dads, he recognizes after a moment: Leroy. He's only met them a few times but it's not like the parents of Rachel Berry would be hard to forget.

It's just the two of them on the bench, Hiram is nowhere in sight and his chest aches at the realization that she's crying for her sick father. Will wonders if she's not with him for the same reason Kurt and Carole and Burt aren't with Finn.

Rachel's head is leaning against her dad's shoulder, and she looks even more vulnerable than he's ever seen her, worse than any boy drama he's been there for.

(_This_, unfortunately, is real paralyzing grief she's experiencing.)

He catches the profile of her face in the setting sun, her lips turned downward, her mouth open a little, and her eyes wide as she looks up at her father's face as if to ask _why?_

(He feels like a voyeur, watching her so decimated.)

The shrill siren of an ambulance breaks the air and he turns, walks back into the hospital, even though he's certain he looks more lost now than he had ten minutes ago.

When he leans back against the wall he smiles gently at the kids, and squeezes Kurt's shoulder with a nod.

Kurt nods back, but doesn't meet his eyes.

()()()

Will stays at the hospital for a while, until Burt comes over and tells Blaine to take Kurt home. The rest of the club walks out with them, holding hands and leaning on each other.

He catches them all casting small looks at each other, and he thinks that the visit was supposed to be encouraging to everyone, not…_this_.

Will hangs back a moment, nods at Burt and Carole, and they offer him weak smiles when he slips his jacket over his shoulders and follows behind them.

(He looks for Rachel when he gets outside, but it's silly. She's long gone by now.)

()()()

He's exhausted when he flops down on the couch, and is grateful there's a quiz for Spanish tomorrow, and nothing for him to plan.

Dropping his jacket next to him on the couch, he flips on the TV as he reluctantly pushes himself back up to get a bottle of beer.

The anchors' voices filter through the apartment as he opens the refrigerator, belatedly remember he's forgotten to pick up beer because of everything, and shuts the door again with a frustrated pout.

Instead he gets himself a glass of water and sits down, kicking his shoes to the floor.

(The nice thing about being alone is space to sprawl out.)

Will only half listens as he thinks about Finn, and Rachel, and Nationals only a few days away. It isn't his top priority, not when someone he cares about is sick, but they've all been working toward this for two years and he isn't ready to give in, not yet.

(Except he isn't sure he's not alone in that thought right now.)

The image in the upper right corner of the screen changes to the medical symbol, and he catches the screen pan to a reporter outside of a hospital in Cleveland. Will perks up, listening carefully as he explains there's been an outbreak of the flu, a severe strand, and that beds are filling rapidly.

Will's breath stops until the reporter says that they're all being treated, and a vaccine is in the works.

|DAY 8|

It's easier to get up on Thursday, after listening to the news the previous night. Finn's sick with the flu, Rachel's dad probably is, too, and now they can be treated. He still isn't looking forward to not seeing Finn back in glee, it'll take a few days to heal, but at least they should be back to normal by Nationals.

()()()

At lunch, Emma smiles at him when he takes a seat next to her, and Shannon asks how Finn is. He hesitates before he tells them about the experience at the hospital the night before.

When they furrow their brows and look at each other he can't help but think about how two more kids were missing from class today.

()()()

Glee comes too quickly, when his head is back to fuzzy and his third period class was incomplete, too.

But the sight of his kids in front of him is always welcome, and a smile graces his lips when he sees Mercedes holding Kurt's hand in the front row.

(His smile is tested when he catches sight of Rachel's red-rimmed eyes in the back row.)

As everyone filters in, Will drops his bag by the piano, and puts his hands on his hips as he stands in front of Kurt.

"Hey, any word on Finn?" Kurt shakes his head, but it's stilted, and he wonders if that's true, exactly. Before he can press it, Sam takes the seat beside Mercedes and apologizes to Kurt for not being able to make it.

Will listens as Kurt brushes it off, tells him they couldn't see Finn anyway, but Will's attention is mostly focused on Sam's pale cheeks, and the way he has to shake his head to listen to Kurt.

()()()

They all file out after a useless rehearsal, and Will doesn't blame him; he isn't invested right now, either. Finn, despite all the drama his relationships cause, is really at the heart of the team, right there with Rachel.

Will isn't sure how to get the team back on track without either of them.

(He caught her mouth closed, not signing, more often than not.)

Kurt takes a deep breath when he stands and pats Mercedes' hand. She hasn't let go once during practice.

When they walk past him to leave, Kurt glances at him worriedly, and the feeling that Kurt hadn't told him everything resurfaces. "Kurt? Have you seen Finn at all?"

He knows he asked him pretty much the same thing an hour ago, and Mercedes' confused expression reflects that, but this time Kurt nods.

Kurt lets Mercedes go on without him, and Will watches as their hands slowly drop and she walks away.

Will crosses his arms as Kurt explains that the nurses let him in to see Finn before school, for just a second. "How did he look?"

Kurt pauses, presses his lips together until his cheeks dimple. "He was, uh, pretty tired." Will waits a moment, for Kurt to continue.

When he doesn't, he prompts, "Kurt?"

"I held his hand." Kurt swallows harshly, and nods once before looking down. "He couldn't feel it. He couldn't move his fingers."

Kurt sees Mercedes waiting for him at the door, and he excuses himself, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder.

Will watches as he heads out, and catches sight of Rachel turning the corner, leaving the choir room, too.

(He wants to talk to her, ask her how she is, but he's too late.)

()()()

Will remembers to stop at the store, this time, and when he comes home he has warm beer and food he no longer has an appetite for. He's putting it away when the phone rings, and groans as he stands up and reaches for its place on the wall.

It's his dad. He's startled that either of his parents is calling; they love him and he loves them, but they're not the most communicative family.

He smiles and laughs with them now, but the images of drunken fights and burned down curtains is always at the surface of his family memories.

"How are you guys? Still loving Florida?" He smiles into the phone, grateful to hear from someone that isn't surrounded by sickness, even if he still struggles with talking to them.

His smile fades when his dad says that it's great but there's a bad flu going around.

It startles Will and he hesitates before laughing at the joke his dad cracks, and the rest of their conversation is short.

Will's about to hang up when his dad brings it back to the flu, and asks if it's hit Lima yet.

It has.

His dad just says _oh_ like he did when Will had explained that Terri was faking the pregnancy, and then their conversation is really over and Will hangs up, and decides that the few minutes the beer was in the fridge was enough, and cracks it open.

|DAY 9|

It's slow going getting ready the next morning, but Will somehow manages, walking slowly into the building in his standard vest and tie, briefcase in one hand and thermos in the other.

He's never been so grateful for sunglasses as he is when he catches sight of Mercedes rubbing Kurt's back on a bench outside.

()()()

First through third period is like pulling teeth, for the students, but him, too. No one seems to be motivated to do anything, and it's strange.

(But really, he understands it.)

Before lunch he glances down at his roll sheet.

Five blank boxes among the harsh check marks.

()()()

His roast beef sandwich tastes bland to him, and his eyes can't settle in the teachers' lounge. Shannon is talking to Emma about the news last night about some bear in a tree outside of Osgood that he stops listening to when he realizes it isn't about the flu.

Two teachers are missing.

Usually it would excite him, would mean sick days being cashed in by others in exchange for Holly coming for a few days. Except Holly is in Cleveland, now, and his coworkers cashing in their PTO is actually because they're sick.

(It's unsettling.)

"Will? Have you heard any more about Finn?" Emma's smiling when she asks, hopeful, and he's been the one to make that smile go away so much that he can't bear the thought of doing it again.

He hesitates a moment, his mouth open and eyes wide still from thinking about the other teachers. But finally he drops his gaze to the table with a shake of the head and a close-eyed smile.

"Yeah, actually. The nurses let Kurt go in yesterday, and Finn was awake." Emma smiles bigger and it feels like an undeserved reward. Shannon's smiling, too, but he thinks she knows he's hiding something by the tight-lipped smile she sends back.

Before either can ask him questions he doesn't want to answer, he drops his sandwich and asks, "So what happened in Osgood?"

()()()

He feels guilty, when he's sitting behind his desk before glee. Will isn't sure why he lied, or, at the very least, misled his two best friends.

He'd told them about that first hospital visit, no problem.

So why is it one, now?

Will absent-mindedly prints a worksheet as he realizes it's because of the nervous curve of Emma's mouth, the slow nod of Shannon's head after he told them.

(He's worried because they'd somewhat understood that something was _really_ wrong.)

He doesn't want things to be wrong, doesn't want confirmation from anyone, not the news, not his friends, not his students.

"Mr. Schue?"

Kurt's in the doorway, hesitant, and his stomach tightens as he wonders why he isn't smiling if he's here to tell him Finn's recuperating in the hospital like he should be.

"Yeah, Kurt." He turns his back on the younger boy as he picks the papers from the print tray and straightens them out with a quick drop to the table top.

"I just wanted to let you know that I won't be in glee today."

He turns quickly, his eyes wide. "Are you alright? You're not sick, are you?"

Kurt shakes his head and pulls his long sweater closer around him. "No, I'm fine, but I wanted to try to get in to see Finn. The nurse told me it would be my best chance."

Will nods, and it's understandable, of course, but he doesn't like this rapid visual loss—he's used to a full classroom, lounge, choir room.

(None of this is right.)

He meets Kurt's eyes and smiles, lets him know it's fine. Kurt thanks him, but doesn't turn. "Is there something else?"

Kurt looks more nervous, now, and a sharp spike goes through him as he begs for everyone else to be fine. Nationals is so close.

"Rachel won't be in, either."

He swallows harshly as he thinks about Kurt's words, Finn not moving his hand, and remembers how Finn's eyes had lowered, he'd squinted before he'd fallen down.

"Is she, I mean—"

"She's not sick." He hesitates, looks lost. "Her dad passed away this morning."

Will's grateful Kurt doesn't expect much more from him because he has no idea what he could have said.

Rachel's dad _had the flu_, a day ago.

Kurt leaves and Will sits down, sinks into his chair and tries not to picture her profile on that bench outside the hospital.

He fails.

(He always seems to fail when it comes to her.)

()()()

Glee is pointless that day, and everyone knows it. It reminds him of when Burt had his heart attack and no one knew what to say, how to act.

(He knows he's supposed to guide them but he thinks he might be even more lost than they are.)

His attempt to have them sing is half-hearted, and when he catches a tear roll down Tina's face and Mike's arm comes around her, he excuses them, tells them they'll try again on Monday.

()()()

Will wants to call Emma when he gets home.

He's lonely, and shaken, and a little scared. But he knows if he calls her he'll end up relapsing, telling her how much he needs her and restraining the friendship that is so tenuous right now.

He thinks about calling Shannon, but as much as he loves her she's not the one he wants to talk to at the moment.

For a moment he even picks up the phone, hesitates over his parents number, because maybe all he needs is his mom and dad.

Out of nowhere comes a shot of guilt. Rachel can't call one of her dads anymore, ever.

_He had the flu_.

(It doesn't make sense.)

Will's never felt so alone, and he reaches again for his phone, wonders if it would be a bad idea to call Rachel and check in.

(He hopes she knows she's not alone.)

But he doesn't know her number, doesn't have the directory with him, it's at school, so he just drops the phone and decides on a long shower.

When he stands, though, the news comes on, and he doesn't want to listen but he knows he has to.

He watches as the camera talks to four different people; listens to a reporter in front of a hospital in Columbus tonight.

Listens to the directive to limit exposure to those presenting symptoms, to get away from them as soon as possible.

Listens as the reporter lists symptoms like a storm warning; fever, nausea, vomiting, confusion, drowsiness, seizure, paralysis, coma.

_Death._

_There have been a few reported deaths_, he says, like one of those doesn't belong attached to the name of his student's father.

Will's been trying to ignore the idea of Finn, lying in a hospital all day, but he can't hide any longer.

(He's _scared_.)

Will thinks about Finn, crying in his arms as he learns his girlfriend is pregnant; thinks about how Finn needed him, how Will helped him through that year.

He's grateful for Burt, that Finn finally got an actual father, but the feeling of being needed, the bond they'd had through so much of that first year won't ever leave completely, and he's scared.

He's _scared_.

|DAY 10|

Honestly, Will never cares too much for the weekend. It's nice to have a break, but the weekends are boring when he has nothing to do.

He really, really hates this Saturday. He's alone, cut off from his students, from news about Finn, Rachel.

He doesn't like being kept out of the loop. His imagination is active and he's nervous, and that doesn't help him at all.

The TV is on, he must have left it on the night before, but when a cartoon comes on he mutes it, can't stand the outlandish voices as he tries to decide if he should go to the hospital, go see Finn, or even stop by his office and call Rachel.

Nationals is next Friday.

His phone rings before he can make up his mind, and he's relieved a moment before he's terrified.

(His voice is shaky when he answers.)

"_Mr. Schue?"_

"Kurt," he's so relieved, ready for him to say that Finn is better, is getting treatment. "Are you at the hospital, how's Finn?"

There's a breathy pause, and Will feels a moment of anger at Kurt hesitating when he called _him_. "_He's not getting better, Mr. Schue. The doctors still won't let us back, either."_

His eyes are closed and he wishes he would've gone down there, that he didn't have to listen to this over the phone.

"God, Kurt, I—"

"_Rachel? Oh my God, Rachel, what happened?"_ His breath catches as he listens to Kurt's muffled voice and the sound of footsteps. He's panting in time with the crying he can hear over the phone and it's killing him to listen to this, to not know what's happening.

"_Kurt, I, my dad,_" there's ruffling and he can imagine Kurt hugging Rachel, trying to comfort her.

"_I know, Rachel, I'm so sorry, I heard—"_

"_NO!"_

Will doesn't know why he's listening, still, when it's hurting so much to hear so much pain. But he needs to know what's happening, needs to hear that everything is fine and he can't hang up until that happens.

"_My dad, daddy fell, this morning! The EMTs, they wouldn't let me ride with and I can't find him! The nurses, they won't—_"

"_Rachel, come sit over here, I'll go ask, OK?" _

There's more rustling, and Will wonders if Kurt forgot he's on the phone before he hears clicking and a clear breath through the phone.

"_Mr. Schue? I'm sorry, Rachel_—"

"I heard." He can't listen to it again, he can't.

(She's breaking his heart.)

"_I'm gonna go check in, see if I can find—" _He can hear Kurt swallow. "_Mr. Schue, she looks," _he doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't need to.

Before the boy can hang up Will stops him, says his name. "Can you let me know what's happening? Every once in a while?"

Kurt agrees, and Will thinks he might understand, they way he says he _promises_ to.

()()()

He manages to pass a few hours somehow, until his cell phone vibrates against his coffee table.

The number isn't in his contact list but after the last call he recognizes it. "Kurt?"

"_Rachel's sitting with us, but she's shaking badly. And Puck's here, now."_

There are no formalities, and Will appreciates it.

"Is he OK?"

Will knows what the answer will be, he's sure, but he still hopes Kurt will tell him yes, that everything's fine.

(He's afraid to stop waiting for that answer.)

"_He's not sick."_ The relief is palpable, and Will realizes how badly he needed something to cling to. "_But his little sister is."_

()()()

He's been avoiding calling anyone else all day, too afraid to get an answering machine and what that will mean, but when Kurt calls a third time to say that Rachel passed out in the lobby from exhaustion, he picks up the phone.

Emma's first, of course.

"_Will? Is everything alright?_"

He's so, _so _grateful for the sweet tone of her voice. He barely refrains from telling her just that, instead asks how she is.

She's a little confused, and he's even more grateful for that, and the seed of hope it gives him that he's overreacting to everything, to all of this.

He can breathe, on the phone with her, and he feels his forehead smooth as he sits down on the couch, leans back and just talks to her for a while.

It's easy and she tells him how the bear in Osgood story ended, and he laughs effortlessly into the receiver.

They're friends, just like that, for just a short time. It's the only way they do it now, both are too afraid to push any harder because they know what they're working towards deserves their patience.

Still, when she hesitates on the other line, his cue to hang up, it hurts a little.

(He's already thinking of all the things to worry about before her voice even leaves his ear.)

When he does shut his phone, drop it on the table, he feels his cheeks ache, and he realizes he hasn't really smiled in the past week.

He hates to pick up the phone again because it reminds him of his original purpose for calling her, and that reminds him of why it was a necessity.

_There have been a few reported deaths._

He dials Shannon's number quickly and when she answers their conversation is comfortable and easy, until she hesitates. "_Have you heard about this flu? Is that what Finn's got?"_

He doesn't exactly skip to, "Good night, Shannon," but for all the silence and empty syllables that fill the space he thinks he might as well have.

Will's parents are next, and he hesitates a moment before clicking send.

The phone rings forever, and he's starting to get really, really nervous.

The ease he'd felt with Emma, that had lessened at Shannon's question, is almost absent now.

The voicemail picks up.

"_You've reached the Schuesters! We're not here—"_

"_Hello?"_

The question is breathy, like his mom was in the other room, and when she hiccups as she waits for his response he realizes that the other room was the kitchen, specifically in front of the wine rack.

"Mom?"

Will's long resigned himself to the fact that his mother won't stop drinking, not after thirty years of hinting, encouraging, begging. The anger is familiar and unwelcome because the hot sting of guilt bites at its heels.

He sighs, smiles though she can't see it. "How are you doing, mom?"

They get four questions in, both of his parents are fine, before he can't take it anymore and has to go.

Her hiccupping is getting louder, she's getting gigglier, but he can hear his dad in the background, so he knows it's safe to hang up.

()()()

Without people to call, his night is terribly long. Still, when Kurt calls again he'd almost rather be subjected to another two hours of _Say Yes to the Dress_ than answer it.

(It's a lie. He needs to know how everyone is, even if he's only setting himself up with false hope.)

There's no worse news, just confirmation that Puck's sister has been admitted with a flu and Rachel refuses to go home with Kurt, despite Carole's urging.

(The image of Rachel, sitting in that open room, _alone_ in all senses of the word, makes him nauseous.)

"_She drove herself to the hospital, and she has a key to our house, but I doubt she'll use it."_

Kurt isn't exactly asking him to check on Rachel, but he thinks that's his meaning, so Will nods blankly.

"Thank you, Kurt." He's sure the boy knows what he means, but it sounds awful in the context so he adds, "For keeping me in the loop."

()()()

Will tries not to drive to the hospital immediately, wants to give Rachel a few moments alone if she needs it. But it's ten soon and he can't wait any longer.

He thinks about stopping for coffee, or something for her to eat since it's a safe bet she hasn't, but he isn't sure what to get her, and maybe he can even use it for leverage to get her to go home by telling her she needs to eat.

So he just drives straight to the hospital, and parks towards the back of the lot—there are _a lot_ of cars in the parking lot.

It's a little cool outside and he tugs his jacket around him, sticking his hands in his pockets.

When the door slides open he slips through and walks straight to the nurses' station they'd stopped at for Finn. The nurse at the desk is young, frazzled looking, and he tries his most charming smile when he asks about two patients: Finn Hudson and Leroy Berry.

It doesn't work, but when she looks up at him like she's ready to cry he decides not to push.

Instead he turns, scans quickly until he sees Rachel, staring straight ahead at a far wall from her, her arms around her knees.

(She doesn't acknowledge him, even when he's standing right next to her.)

"Rachel?"

(Now she does look, and he wishes she wouldn't have when he sees her glassy eyes.)

"Kurt sent you." It's not a question in the slightest, so he shrugs his shoulders and sits in the seat next to her, his knees apart as his forearms lean on them.

He considers denying it, claiming coincidence. "Yeah. He, uh, he told me, about your dad."

She starts crying again and he's about to put an arm around her until he sees her pull her legs closer, like she's trying to get away from everything.

Will isn't sure what to say, but she can't say anything right now, and he's supposed to be the one with answers, right?

"Rachel…"

He's got _nothing_. But she gulps and he catches the smallest of glances at him, so he sits back and puts his hand on her upper back.

Rachel doesn't flinch, doesn't relax. She just drops her head onto her folded arms and tries to breathe.

(He's still got nothing, so he just rubs slow circles and hopes he's doing the right thing.)

Her breath is evening out but she's still struggling, he can tell. He wants to say something, anything to make her feel better, but his mind is achingly blank.

He can feel her muscles start to quiver under his hand; she's shaking.

Will prays, now, begs and pleads that a nurse will come over with some good news because he feels absolutely worthless.

Her head rises and his stomach tightens, preparing himself to say something, _anything._

"I don't think I can do this."

Her words stop him, startle him, but when he meets her eyes it's worse. When he'd seen her on the bench outside she'd looked scared, terrified, even, and it had been frightening.

But _this_; her bottom lip is trembling, her cheeks are splotchy red from the effort to breathe, her nose is running, wisps of hair are stuck to her neck, her cheeks, her forehead, and her eyes are questioning, searching, desperate.

(She is _lost_.)

He doesn't know if he should try to smile, to soothe her as he whispers, "It'll be OK, Rachel, everything will be fine," but in the end it doesn't matter because she isn't _seeing_ his face anyway.

There is a second delay before her breath catches and she refocuses her eyes, looks him in the face and sniffles. She's nodding, desperately, like if she agrees with him it'll come true.

(He wants _so much_ for that to be the case.)

Swinging doors burst open and several medical staff runs through the lobby to the other end of the hall and Will looks before he turns back to Rachel.

She's stopped shaking, but when she turns to him again and he asks, "Is your dad in that area?" an entire tremor wracks her body before tears start to stream down her cheeks.

"No, no he's not, he's over," and she gestures to the other end of the lobby. It would be relief in her voice if she hadn't already lost one parent.

Her eyes don't settle until he opens his arms for her to lean against.

(She feels heavy and solid against him when she lets herself fall into his arms, but she feels hollow, too.)

|DAY 11|

Rachel doesn't relax, but she does settle down enough to fall asleep against Will's shoulder. At least, that's what he gathers when he wakes up to find her eyes still closed.

(His right arm is numb as she presses her back against it.)

The watch on his wrist reads a little after two in the morning, but Will is surprised to find the lobby still mostly full. He wonders if it's the same people or different ones.

(He wonders if they are the only constants.)

He doesn't want to wake Rachel, not when her eyes are so terrifyingly blank, but when he tries to flex his hand behind her head she starts to stir.

Her confusion is short lived before she's sitting up straight and avoiding his eyes, looking at her cell phone for the time.

She whispers an apology as she straightens out her skirt and he shakes his head, tells her not to worry about it.

He still doesn't know what to say, so he asks if she wants some coffee.

She does.

He gets up, grateful to stretch out his back from the hard seats, and goes searching for a vending machine.

Being away from Rachel makes him feel like he can breathe again, he's not so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of not saying anything at all.

But it also worries him, when he thinks about how she had leaned into him so readily. Her only parent is in a hospital bed and she's not even allowed to see him, to go back to check on him.

He hurries up with two cups of coffee, sure to be terrible but strong, and feels his skin tingle when he catches sight of her again, sitting with her feet tucked under her, her sweater pulled close to her body as her teeth worry her bottom lip.

He tries to smile when she looks up at him but it feels forced so he just extends his arm.

"How are you—"

"I appreciate you sitting with me, Mr. Schuester, but you can go home, now."

It's abrupt and he stutters for a moment as he tries to form a reply.

"No, Rachel, I don't mind—"

He watches as she narrows her eyes a moment, tightens her lips before staring straight ahead as she cuts him off. "I'd like you to go, now."

That throws him.

(She's always the one that throws him.)

He drops his arm, still holding her coffee and furrows his brows, confused. "Uh, Rachel, I don't think you should be alone right now."

She doesn't look at him, just tucks tighter into herself and looks him in the eye for only a second before her eyes shift and she's staring at the wall behind him. "Please, Mr. Schue."

He isn't sure if it's the way she won't look at him, how she's holding her own stomach like she's going to be sick or the use of his shortened name, but he doesn't think he should leave.

(In fact, he's pretty sure leaving her right now is the _worst_ thing he could do.)

But the pleading tone and the unshed tears he can see in her eyes, the way she's practically begging him to go with the stiff, stubborn draw of her lips does it, and he can't go against her request, not now.

"Uh, yeah. Sure, sure thing, Rach." He hands her the cup he'd gotten her and she takes it, her cheek twitching as she presses her lips tighter together.

He picks up the jacket he'd thrown over the seat next to him, draping it over the arm with the coffee and scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"Have a good night, Rachel."

He doesn't look back at her, not certain if his decision to leave is the right one, and drops his cup of coffee in the trash can on his way out.

()()()

When Will falls into bed, still in his jeans and tennis shoes from the hospital, it's almost three.

He's exhausted from thinking the entire drive home.

He can't sleep.

(He lies awake for almost an hour, just _thinking_ about everything.)

When he finally passes out he's still in his jeans and tennis shoes.

()()()

The phone in his pocket is what wakes him at ten the next morning, and he doesn't remember Rachel's strange behavior until he sees Kurt's number in the window.

"Kurt?" Will's voice is strained, he's dehydrated.

"_Morning, Mr. Schue."_

He doesn't bother with returning the greeting, not when the memory of her lost eyes hits him full force. "How is everyone?"

"_They still won't let any of us back to see them. Rachel,_" He hesitates on the line and Will knows why already. "_She's in really bad shape. I thought you were going—"_

"How's Finn?" He can't talk about Rachel, try to defend himself when, yes, he should have ignored her request and stayed.

(Despite what she thinks she doesn't always know what's best, especially for herself.)

Kurt's pause is bigger, louder.

"_He slipped into a coma last night." _Will stops trying to muster the strength to sit up and sags back against his headboard.

"God," he breathes out, as his only response. "Any word on Puck's sister?"

"_No. He won't sit with us, either. His mother's sitting in the corner, and I just can't," _Kurt sighs and Will feels a throbbing behind his forehead, and tries to close his eyes tight enough to ease it.

"_And Quinn's here."_

_No_. He can't have another student sick, not when everything is wrong and Nationals is so, so close.

(They've been building to this for two years, now.)

"Is, is she alright?"

She is. It's her mom that's been admitted, and when Kurt tells him that Will realizes that this conversation is far too similar to others, and he's _more than _ready to quit having it.

"How is she taking it?" He's asking about Quinn, but he's also asking about Carole, about Ms. Puckerman. About Rachel.

He wonders if he should just go down there but then he sees Rachel's narrowed eyes, hears her asking him to leave.

Will hears footsteps and then a distant siren getting closer, and he can picture Kurt outside.

He can picture teary eyes, and why the siren's necessary.

"_Quinn's pretty quiet, and she's refusing to call her dad. Puck keeps sitting down for a second before tossing a magazine and walking out, and Carole and my dad, it comes and goes. I just don't understand why we can't see them, and that's what's worrying us."_

Will thinks that maybe, during this, Kurt hasn't seen the news, the instructions to stay away from those with symptoms. That maybe he hasn't picked up on the word _quarantine_ that no one is saying but everyone means.

He's quick to get off the phone, then, before he has to say the words, and Kurt goes back inside the hospital as he ends the call.

()()()

Will does his phone call rounds, but it does very little to calm his nerves today. His phone call to his parents is first, and they're mostly in shock that he's calling twice in a row. Their shock shows in the one and a half minute call.

Shannon's next but she's been watching the news and asking questions and making it all so _real_, so it's an equally short conversation before he says he'll see her tomorrow.

Emma's last today, and he isn't quite sure why. Partly he wants to save the conversation so he feels better, not worse, but he also doesn't really feel like he deserves to feel good after he left Rachel alone in the hospital.

It takes several rings before Emma picks up, and even after she does there's a moment where he thinks she's going to tell him something terrible, like she's got a fever.

She doesn't. Her voice is sweet and gentle and it makes him forget for a while about how Rachel had fallen into him, how she'd rested her forehead against the curve of his neck and pressed her shoulder under his arm.

There's no bear story to follow up on, so when she starts to mention the news he says he has to go, and hangs up like the phone is heating under his hand.

(Emma's pure, she's always been pure, and he can't have her talk about this, too.)

()()()

Will goes for a walk in the afternoon, and it lasts more than an hour before he gets a text that takes the strength from his legs.

**From: +14195554967**

**Quinn just got a text from Sam asking her to babysit. He's got the flu.**

**Jun 5, 3:42 pm**

()()()

The couch sinks as he collapses into it, his legs aching from the twenty minute walk back to his apartment.

It wouldn't have hurt without that text from Kurt.

He stares at the number, not a name in his phonebook.

(Saving it would feel like accepting something and it brings a throb behind his forehead.)

He hasn't texted Kurt back. He doesn't know what he would say.

()()()

It's almost seven when Kurt calls again, and Will is yet to respond to the text about Sam.

(He still has no idea what to say.)

"_Sam's parents brought him in an hour ago."_

He shouldn't be surprised—everyone is following the same path and it ends at the hospital, in pacing and lukewarm coffee and silence beneath overbearing noise.

Still, his jaw clenches as he asks, "How did he look?"

Kurt doesn't respond immediately and Will knows that he's trying to decide if he should lie or tell the truth.

(Will's trying to decide which he'd rather hear.)

"_He looked pale_."

"_Very pale."_

Kurt's voice is wavering while Will nods, pretends to accept what his student is telling him. He's hoping Kurt doesn't expect a real response when awkward silence fills the line.

"How is everyone else?" He finally asks, but isn't sure he means.

Kurt's pause is answer enough, and he sees Rachel, shaking and holding her legs to her chest and crying as she tells him she doesn't think she can do this.

(He's starting to think he can't, either.)

"_Quinn has been silent all day. She sat with Rachel, and I thought, despite everything between them…but she just stood up after an hour and sat back by herself._

"_She tried to get Puck to calm down, though. At least, she went after him, but I don't know what happened. She came back alone."_

Kurt takes a breath and Will's grateful for the reprieve of bad news, but anxious for what the younger boy needs to steel himself to say.

"_Ms. Puckerman was hysterical, but Carole sat with her and that seemed to help, a bit."_

A larger intake of air, and then, "_Rachel…"_

His stomach drops and he feels the smallest wave of nausea at the guilt he feels just from the sound of her name.

(He knows, now, that leaving her was a mistake—he's supposed to be the adult, is supposed to take care of her, even if it goes against what she thinks she needs.)

"_My dad got her to go to our house, but only for an hour, and only after a nurse confirmed that her dad was sleeping but conscious, and no longer seizing."_

Will wonders if Finn gained consciousness, what Sam's symptoms are, how bad Quinn is, if Puck is keeping control.

He's getting dizzy with the list of people to worry about.

"I, uh, I'll come by, OK?"

Kurt sounds relieved, but a little surprised, and he wonders if that reflects well or poorly on him.

()()()

The hospital is busier than the night before, but he can find Kurt almost immediately, pacing in the corner along with Carole and Burt leaning against a wall, Quinn holding Ms. Puckerman's hand while silent tears ran down her cheeks, and, finally, a very stoic Rachel tucked in the corner of the room, still tucked into herself.

She looks the way he left her early this morning; eyes unfocused and dark, her knuckles white from holding her knees. She's changed, though, wearing ill-fitting jeans and what he knows to be one of Kurt's sweaters.

He stands in front of them quickly, and Kurt offers him a weak smile from behind his hand, his elbow cupped on his other arm wrapped so tightly around his waist.

"Where's Puck?" he asks immediately, and he feels bad, but he can't do small talk, not when the ground is shifting beneath all of them so quickly.

"His mom sent him to their synagogue to pray," he almost whispers, and over Kurt's shoulder he can see Rachel look up at him.

(He wonders if it's the word or his presence that causes the fear in her eyes.)

Kurt's watching him carefully when his eyes slide back to meet him, and he can't place why, exactly.

"How are you doing, Kurt?"

The boy practically deflates at the question, and Will feels a jolt of concern that no one has been able to ask about him, with all the rest that's going on.

Kurt looks at his family from the side and Will notices how pale he looks, but how bloodshot his eyes are. He doesn't think he's been crying, but he looks so close.

"I'm worried, Mr. Schue," he sounds exhausted, too, and Will sets his hand on his shoulder as he nods sympathetically.

(He can't do much of anything else.)

Kurt stands in front of him a moment, in silence, before he turns slightly, just enough to glance at the corner.

"She showered at my house, but she didn't sleep." He's talking about Rachel, and he feels guilty and relieved at the same time. "I don't think she's slept at all."

He drops his hand from Kurt's shoulder and wraps his arms tight around himself.

"She did, a little." Kurt's eyes are big, and he thinks, for a moment, that the boy before him, the one giving him updates and keeping him informed is really just a kid. "I stopped by after you called, and she slept for about three hours."

_But then she kicked me out,_ he wants to say, to offer as explanation of why he'd leave one of them scared and alone.

(Kurt looks relieved, he thinks, but his brows furrow.)

Will shifts, wonders if he should sit down next to Rachel, and he catches movement by Quinn.

He watches as the blonde drops Ms. Puckerman's hand, tucks her hands in her lap and looks down as a middle aged woman walks away from them, toward him.

Her hair is pulled up hastily, her jacket is askew and her face looks tight despite the several wrinkles at her forehead, above the dark bags beneath her eyes.

"Mr. Schuester?" Her voice is raspy, and she looks very much like she's been worrying for a lifetime already.

Something shifts by her side and he looks down, sees Sam's younger brother, Stevie, holding the woman's hand and burrowing into her side.

"Mrs. Evans?" he hazards and she closes her eyes briefly accompanied by a tight nod.

He glances back down at Stevie and offers the little boy a too-big smile that no one in the room feels.

Except, he realizes, he feels like he can breathe, a bit more, looking at the innocent face of the young child.

Stevie looks sad, a bid confused, but not scared.

The fear that's gripped his family, the hospital, the city has not touched the innocence of children that know nothing about this, about sickness or seizures or anything beyond their older brother not feeling well.

Know nothing about consequences or implication or words that taste like "quarantine."

Mrs. Evans squeezes her son's hand and he looks back up, offers her a pained look. "I'm sorry Sam's," he glances at Stevie, "not feeling well."

Her purse is tight against her and she grips the handle tighter over her shoulder while the other slips from Stevie's own to his back, then strokes his hair gently, slowly.

"Are you here for someone?"

Her question is quiet, fearful, and he isn't quite sure how to explain that he's not here for someone, he's here for everyone, for all of them.

He narrows his eyes a little, feeling guarded. "Just moral support," it doesn't reflect the seriousness of everything, but she looks grateful and he thinks that maybe she understands.

"Sam talks about you all the time."

Her eyes start to water an instant before his own vision blurs.

(His voice is stuck in his throat, and he doesn't know what to say.)

"It's been a hard," she shuts her mouth quickly and he sees her chin quiver, her jaw clench and her eyes soften as she looks down at her youngest son.

_Year_, he knows, and he puts his own hand on Stevie's head, pats him gently.

It's been a hard year for him, too.

"Where's your sister, Stevie?"

He's trying to lighten the air, to include the confused child, but he just looks up at his mom and he watches as tears start to trail down her cheeks.

_Oh_. _Oh, God._

"Excuse us," she whispers, and he thinks that maybe the innocence isn't so untouched, that this illness knows no bounds and it's _not fair, God damn it._

Kurt's left his side, he stands with his parents now, and Carole is running her hand over his arm in a distracted half-hug.

He glances back to Quinn and sees her sitting with her phone, now, staring down at it, and he wonders if she's reconsidering calling her dad.

Ms. Puckerman's eyes are closed, and he isn't sure if she's fallen asleep or passed out.

When he looks back in front of him he sees Rachel, just feet away, watching him.

He swallows harshly and walks over, takes the seat next to her.

He can see that her hair is still wet from the shower Kurt had sent her to, that her face is clean of make-up, and that the bags beneath her eyes are dark purple now.

It feels heavy, now, sitting with her around other people they know, and he feels like he's on the spot.

(He says nothing.)

It's not comfortable, sitting next to her, neither one saying anything, be he thinks it will be worse to address last night, what happened.

(He can't confront her with them.)

Still, he can't ignore her or pretend she's fine.

(The guilt eats away at him more the longer his mouth stays closed.)

"How are you feeling?" It's lame, he feels more uncomfortable because her answer is obvious and he suddenly feels her age.

"I'm fine."

She's not.

Her voice is nothing like he expects, not while he's looking at pale cheeks and red eyes, lifeless hair stuck to her forehead.

It's calm, even. Her voice is heavy and measured, like she's acting, and it reminds him of how she'd felt against him last night.

Hollow.

He clears his throat and slides his feet forward, plants them firmly on the ground and leans forward, his elbows on his thighs, his shoulders hunched.

He's bracing himself for the question he needs to ask.

"Any word yet?" She looks at him, her eyes shining and bright, but so, _so _dark.

He watches her lower eyelid twitch. "No."

It's accusatory, sharp, like she knows what he's after. In all fairness, what he's trying isn't right—it's cruel, even.

He's trying to bait her, to get a reaction, because seeing her like this makes his stomach knot, makes him want to reach for his phone and call Emma.

He looks over and sees Kurt, now standing with Blaine, and Will realizes he didn't notice the other boy coming in at all.

(It's strange how little he's thought about Blaine until he's here, with them.)

When he turns to Rachel she's watching them, until her eyes flicker and she looks down at her hands in her lap. He looks over and they're hugging.

(They sit in the silence, now, and it dawns on him that there's a dull ache of hurt that Rachel doesn't try to lean against him again.)

"Daddy!" The shout draws several pairs of nearby eyes, and Will joins them to see Stevie running into his father's open arms.

(In his peripheral he catches Rachel make a fist, but her face shows nothing.)

Will can't help but watch Stevie hug his dad, smile up at him. Mr. Evans returns it, smaller and slower, but he ruffles Stevie's hair to pay the difference.

Watching this feels aggressive, pointed. He feels like he's being confronted with family, the thing he wants most when his own small version is falling apart.

Without warning there's a pressure in his forehead, and he has to pinch the bridge of his nose, close his eyes until the feeling passes and he can open them again.

Rachel's looking at him when he does.

He feels like he's supposed to say something to her.

(He's at a complete loss for words while he's looking at her.)

"Rachel?"

He turns, sees Mercedes coming over with Quinn at her side. Mercedes looks worried but otherwise healthy, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Quinn looks worse, though, and he figures it's because next to someone other than Rachel, Quinn's eyes look redder, the bags beneath them bigger, her hair more frazzled and her clothes more limp on her body.

Rachel is still watching him, he can feel her eyes.

"Do you want to stay at my house tonight? Quinn is." Mercedes is waiting, she seems reluctant and determined at the same time, and it confuses him, but he also sort of gets it.

(Any offer to Rachel Berry has to be seriously considered because the girl does nothing half way.)

She's not responding to her friend, but she's stopped staring him down and he's grateful.

Now her attention is focused on the floor by his right foot, and she seems confused, contemplative.

(Honestly, she seems numb, out-of-it. Vacant.)

"I'll bring you back early tomorrow morning, OK?" Will looks back at the other two girls, sees Mercedes pleading with him for help.

(He'd laugh at the assumption he knows what he's doing but he's certain it will come out a pitiful sob.)

"I'll stay," he hears his own voice, rough from confusion.

(He hadn't meant to say anything, but now that he has he figures he should see it through.)

Rachel turns to him, her brows furrowed as she looks down at the empty space between them. Slowly, she looks up, under her loose hair, and he clears his throat.

"I'll stay, and call you if anything changes."

Her eye twitches, and she raises her head, stares him down.

It's quite disconcerting, being under Rachel Berry's scrutiny.

She's not going to listen, he realizes, so he places his hand on hers, and leans forward just a little.

"I _promise,_ Rachel."

She licks her lips and pulls back, slides her hand from under his and looks confused.

"Fine," her voice is weak, lifeless, but there's a lilt of words unsaid, and he wants to know what she's holding back at the same time he wants her to leave, to just get some damn rest before she runs herself into the ground.

Quinn and Mercedes wave to him as Rachel brushes past, before they steer her over to Kurt.

She stands there, her mouth not moving, but when Kurt steps forward her head drops, and he holds her tight against him, he can tell. Her arms stay limp at her sides a moment, but before he pulls away she pats his upper back once.

They all turn to leave, but Rachel's stopped by Kurt, his hand on her wrist, and he watches his information life line offer her a sympathetic smile before he drops her arm.

When the girls walk past him, Rachel looks over, visibly uncomfortable to be leaving. Her eyes lock onto his, and there's a warning there, that he _better_ call her.

He will.

()()()

He sits there for a half hour, pacing and fidgeting and dialing Emma's number but not calling.

Kurt sits with him, Blaine on the other side. Burt and Carole try but they can't stay still, and they all look as tired as Rachel. At 8pm Burt pulls Blaine aside, casts low looks at his son with his hand on Blaine's shoulder.

Kurt watches them closely, and when they come back, Blaine smiles at his boyfriend.

"C'mon Kurt, I'll take you home."

The other boy is too tired to put up much of a fight and soon he stands, takes the hand his boyfriend is offering and smiles sadly at his parents.

"Goodnight, Mr. Schue." Will nods, and Kurt looks down before Blaine leads him out.

When Kurt is gone from sight, Burt collapses into the chair by Will's side with an exhausted sigh. Carole sits down next to him, burrows into his side when he opens his arm in invitation, and he sees Burt drop a kiss to the top of her head.

Will looks away, quickly, feels like a voyeur watching this intimate moment between husband and wife.

Looking down at his feet he realizes he hasn't heard from Terri in a while. His stomach drops.

He doesn't want to talk to her, call her, really; it's been a year since the divorce but the wounds are still fresh enough. Her name still stings of belittlement and betrayal.

But he still loves her, he can't turn it off no matter how hard he tries.

(And he's _tried_.)

He needs to know she's alright.

**Have you heard about this flu?**

She has a new job, she's no longer in Lima, but he figures if it's reached his parents it may have reached her, too.

He feels a bit like a coward, texting rather than making the phone call, but he just can't call her, not now, not when the thought of calling Emma sounds so good.

He knows whatever he says to Terri now, good or bad, will be a mistake.

**yes. i'm fine. are u sick?**

He lets go of a breath he didn't realize he was holding and glances at the Hummels. They haven't noticed.

**I'm fine**

He debates with the text, wants to tell her about Finn and Puck and Quinn, even.

(He doesn't want to talk about Rachel.)

It feels good, amazing, even, to have someone asking if he's all right and he wants to keep their conversation going.

He hasn't been sick since the monkey flu early in the year, and he has to admit that having Terri take care of him reminded him why he fell in love with her, married her.

He misses it, the coming home to someone that wants to listen to you talk about your day, share their own. He misses having another person to shoulder burdens, to worry with. Someone to talk things through with and help you make sense of things.

But he's not married to her anymore, she's in Miami and he's in a hospital waiting room with his constructive family.

He leaves the text as is, sends it.

**i'm glad**

He appreciates her message, has to force himself to leave the text as is and move on, not lean on Terri, so he slides his phone into the pocket of his jacket.

He glances back at Burt and Carole. "If you two want-" he stops, rephrases. "I'm staying here. You both should go home, be with Kurt. I promise I'll call you the second I hear anything."

They're more exhausted than Kurt but they fight longer, not harder, until Carole crumples in her husband's arms and they thank him, leave the hospital on wobbly legs with stiff backs.

He doesn't imagine they'll stay at home long, but everyone is running on so little that just a few hours can help.

Ms. Puckerman is seated in the corner, a Star of David pendant clutched in her hand as she sleeps.

Mrs. Evans must have left, along with Stevie, because Will only sees Sam's dad, now.

"Hey." Puck's voice is low, dangerous. Will looks up to see the young boy's eyes narrowed, and he doesn't offer a smile, a formality, or any other platitude.

"I'm sorry," Will's face is open, and Puck waits a moment, stares down at the older man, hard, before he breathes out and sinks into the chair beside his teacher.

(He thinks it's a test, that Puck is testing him. He's not sure if he passed.)

"You got someone here?" Puck's voice is different, lighter. Sympathetic, if this wasn't Puck.

Will just turns his head slightly, clenches his jaw and looks down, shrugs.

Puck keeps staring at him, Will can feel it, until he catches movement from the corner of his eye and Will sees his student stand.

When he looks up Puck pats him on the shoulder. "I better get my mom home."

Will nods, clasps his hands together in his lap. "I'm gonna hang around here a little longer."

Puck nods again, and Will watches him shake his mom gently, take her hand and lead her out of the hospital.

Before he left, Puck didn't make him promise, didn't eye him until he _understood_ what he was supposed to do, didn't needle him for a commitment he'd already made.

He breathes out, alone again, and leans his head back against the cold wall.

Puck had looked _exhausted_, dark and tired like everyone else, but there was a resolve there, too, like Puck was going to do something, anything.

Will sits in the hospital, the sounds of sniffles and cries and fights with nurses around him.

He thinks about Puck, about Finn. He'd been so willing, so ready to take Finn under his wing, support him when the boy had learned of his impending parenthood.

And yet, when everything came out, when Puck stepped into that same role, Will hadn't treated him the same, hadn't offered to help, to be there, to take Puck out to dinner and be the father figure he'd never had.

He thinks it's because Puck never seemed scared, or nervous, or like his entire world was caving in, and that he'd just assumed Puck was handling it better than Finn because of it.

The memory of waiting in the hospital lobby as Puck paced the room before he was let back to be with Quinn as she went into labor is followed by the rest of that day: Puck coming out of the double doors, face open and scared and his cheeks slick with tears as he fell into Will's arms, telling them all that Beth was alive and healthy with a pained smile against Will's shoulder.

The images are superseded by fresher ones of Puck helping his mother up, holding her arm firmly as her knees wobble on the way out of the hospital. It hits him, suddenly, that Puck was in need of a father, too. Finn had all but asked him, and he'd been so compliant, so willing to make a family of his own, however he could.

Will bites at his tongue, his head throbbing as he curses the fact that it never occurred to him that Puck may have needed that, too. Moreso, he realizes, as he thinks about Ms. Puckerman, taking care of two children, and the de facto man of the house having a penchant for illicit behavior.

The regret of a missed opportunity stings, then, deeply, and Will feels a little uneasy, a little lightheaded. A little nauseous.

The pressure is building as he thinks about the only family he's got left, and how it's falling apart fever by fever.

()()()

"It's been two hours! Are you telling me that—" Yelling startles Will from his blank stare and he turns to see Mr. Evans yelling at a nurse, his short hair mussed and tie loosened, askew.

He can see the nurse apologizing, her hand movement jerky but firm as he berates her. She runs a hand through frazzled hair and with a short pat to Mr. Evans' arm, she turns.

Will feels like he's intruding, barging in on a private moment, but when Mr. Evans sinks down in a chair a few feet away he clears his throat and stands, walks toward him.

"Mr. Evans?" Will's voice sounds scared to his own ears.

He eyes him, suspicious. "You're not a doctor." It's a barked laugh, flat without any humor to back it up.

"No, sir, I'm not." It feels strange, calling this other man _sir_, but he can tell he appreciates the comment on his authority when he feels as though he has none.

(Will's felt like that, too. Often, even.)

"I'm Will Schuester, I teach glee club," he extends a hand, and Mr. Evans breathes a small sigh before he takes it.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little—"

Will holds up a hand and takes the seat next to him. "No need."

They sit in silence a moment before Mr. Evans speaks again. "It's George, by the way." He offers the smallest quirk of his lips as he takes a deep breath. "Sam talks about you all the time."

He casts a sidelong glance before looking down at his hands in his lap. "Thank you, for everything. Sammy's had, we've—" he clears his throat, "it's been a hard year."

Will nods, not sure what to say, and leans forward, rests his arms on his thighs and stretches his neck.

"Are you here for someone?" George is asking about Will's family; it's a question Will's sick of, _very_ sick of.

"A few people," he replies evenly, without looking at the other man.

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

They sit like that, in silence, and it's more comfortable than it has a right to be; they're strangers by definition, and yet their understanding is calming, a balm, even.

"Do you have kids, Will?"

_Yes_, he wants to say. The glee kids are his, in a way. They're his family, but to claim them now, to claim Sam as one of his now, to his real father, feels wrong, insulting, almost, in George's time of grievance and worry.

The concept is too complicated for a late night, for cooling cups of bitter coffee, and he bites his tongue, shakes his head. "No, I don't." He hesitates. "But I want to."

His breath catches at the admission, the easy response about his _future_ when the word tastes so fleeting.

He doesn't look, but recognizes the movement at his side to be George nodding, slowly.

"I never wanted kids, never really planned to settle down until Sammy happened."

The words seem cold, detached to Will, but as certain as George's declaration is the face that says he loves his family more than anything.

(Will thinks he's trying to push away, to vilify himself so that he can be punished.)

Will remembers Terri, crying in his dorm room, clutching her stomach as they wondered aloud how they were going to do this, grow up. He remembers praying for _just a little more time_, followed by keg stands and drunken apologies and joyful shrieks of relief on a telephone.

He remembers considering those days often now, now that he wants a baby, a family more than anything, and how he wonders sometimes if that prayer was permanent; if he'd asked for something and now been damned to the consequences.

George is quiet beside him, and Will wonders if he's wondering the same things.

A low cough wavers, and Will leans back, rests his hand on George's shoulder, hunched now in an imitation of Will's posture.

"It's just been a really hard year."

()()()

The lobby is thinning by midnight, and Will stands, leaves George sleeping with his forehead against the wall to look for updates and coffee.

He finds none of the former, and swallows the frustration down with the acrid taste of the latter.

Will forgoes his spot by George Evans, and instead takes a seat in an empty corner of the lobby, leaning back, his eyes heavy.

|DAY 12|

When he wakes up it seems quieter than before, and judging by the darkness outside of the glass doors it's still quite early. He blinks and pulls his hand over his face before he looks at his watch and realizes it's a little after five.

His back aches and he stretches, trying to loosen the stiff muscles, but his motions halt as he realizes Rachel is sitting a chair away from him.

"Rachel?" His voice is rough from sleep and burned coffee, and his teeth taste fuzzy when he runs his tongue over them. Her form is blurry, but he blinks her into focus.

It looks like she's slept, not much, but enough. Kurt's sweater still clings to her, but her almost-baggy jeans are now stretchy pants, like Terri used to wear to yoga or Pilates or the other phase of the week.

She runs a hand over her loose braid, strands falling out and sticking out and flying away once her fingers leave them.

"Good morning." Her voice is bitter, and he thinks she's making a joke, if you could call it that.

He doesn't want to play like this, he's too exhausted from thinking and worrying and waiting, and he sits up with a groan. "What are you doing here, Rachel?" Her pointed look is too sharp and he continues, softer. "I told you I'd call."

He tries to get his breathing regular, he's still heaving long, slow breathes as if his body is unaware he's awake.

(Maybe he's not.)

"I know." Her voice sounds sweet, too much like herself and when he looks her eyes are brown, dark, but not the terrifying black of before.

He rests his hand on the chair between them, hopes she sees it as a peace offering. "Does Mercedes know you left?"

"Does it matter?" It's not resigned, self-deprecating like it would have been a week or two ago, but rather bitter, angry, like he's implying she needs a sitter.

(She does.)

He knows he has to be careful, now, knows that he's treading very uneven ground. "I'm sure it does to her."

She doesn't snort like she doesn't believe him, but when he turns to face her she's smileless, lost in thought, and he realizes they're done talking about things she no longer deems important.

He looks over at George's seat. He's gone.

"How did you get here?"

He knows he won't like the answer.

"I walked."

His jaw clenches.

(Her voice is lacking almost all inflection, her hands are steady, he notices.)

"Why don't I drive you back to Mercedes' house." It's not a question.

She narrows her eyes, tries to stare him down but pauses after a moment, looks at her hands. "My car is in the lot. You can leave now."

"I told Kurt I'd stay." She looks up at him, and he sees the question she won't ask; if Kurt had him stay for her, or Finn.

(He's hurt she doesn't know it's both, it's all of them.)

Her brow wrinkles and she looks to the side, toward a hallway, staring off into the distance.

"Would you go get me some tea?" Her voice is different, almost back to normal, and he finds himself standing, quickly, ready to do anything to keep that, to keep that link to Rachel, the Rachel he knows.

(_His_ Rachel.)

"Sure, Rach," and he sees her shift as he stands, heads toward the kitchenette. He bypasses the pots of coffee he's far too familiar with, and instead grabs an empty cup and fills it, before picking out a tea packet, chamomile, he decides, and steeps it.

(She needs to sleep but he isn't sure how to make her, and he can only try with the ideas that are offered before him.)

When he reaches their corner of the lobby, she's gone.

"Rachel?" The question is quiet, but a few non-sleeping residents turn to look.

"Rachel?" It's louder, and still no response. It's concerning, and when he catches sight of a nurse nearby, he turns to her.

"Excuse me, have you seen a girl, short, brown hair in braids, wearing a long sweater?" The nurse shakes her head, her own brown hair sticking to her forehead as she walks away.

_The bathroom_. The idea is sudden and so, _so_ comforting. He looks around then, uncomfortable that he'd overreacted, and sits down in his chair, her tea warming his hands.

He sits there, waiting.

Waiting.

_Waiting_.

Minutes later he starts to worry.

(She should be back by now.)

He stands again, her tea cooling as he heads back towards the restrooms. With a deep breath, he knocks on the door. "Rach?"

Nothing. "Rachel?"

He pushes it open, sees two stall doors clearly open, and a sink that might as well be bone dry.

Panic grips him and he clenches the cup tighter, feels the hot water splash against the sides as he turns, takes in the empty hallway.

The hallway that leads down to another set of swinging doors. Rachel's dad is back there. She'd pointed them out the night before when code beeped over the system and staff had run by the lobby.

He takes a moment to breathe, to turn and see no one else in sight, hidden at his angle. Will edges toward the swinging doors, tries to peek inside casually, but bumps the door and finds his head across the threshold.

"Rachel?" He's whispering. He's not sure if she's here, but he is _certain_ that neither of them are supposed to be.

When he stops moving, he hears muffled sobbing. It's her, he knows, as his eyes slam shut and his jaw clenches. He can see her behind his eyelids, hunched over, tears streaming down her face, her lips pouting as she tries to stop the wracking breaths.

"Rachel?" A little louder, again, and he moves into the room.

Rows of beds, full of pale, sleeping faces meet him, and he wants to leave, _so badly_, but he can't, not without her.

As he walks toward the crying, he notices that all of the patients look normal, healthy, even. As if they're all sleeping and not sick. Red noses and sweaty foreheads and cracked lips are the worst of it, and he gulps, speeds up his movements.

(He feels like he's cheating death.)

Finally he sees her, behind a privacy partition curtain, just enough to hide half the "room" they try to create around the beds. Rachel is holding her dad's hand, and it looks nothing like what it is, not scary or worrisome or _final_, and yet the thought is stubborn, takes root as Rachel leans down, rests her forehead on the back of his hand in some twisted switched reality.

(He can't think about her with a fever, he _can't_.)

Rachel's back is to him and he doesn't want to scare her but he thinks she must know he's here, really. "Rachel, you shouldn't be back here." He's whispering again, and this feels wrong, like they're hiding.

The word _quarantine_ rings in his head like a church bell and he thinks that's exactly what they're doing, why no one is supposed to be back here.

She ignores him, and he rests his hand on her shoulder, squeezes.

She just rolls his hand away, leans forward until her head is on Leroy Berry's chest and her arms are around his neck.

Will shifts, sets the tea down on the bedside table, and puts his hand on Rachel's back.

He can't rush her, not when the sobbing starts again, so he just rubs soothing circles on Kurt's sweater and prays that she'll be ready to leave, soon.

They stay like that for a while, full minutes, maybe, until Will's stomach clenches and his hand freezes.

_Footsteps_.

There's a beeping down from them, and he didn't want to do this but now he has no choice.

"Rachel, we need to leave." His voice is low, there is no room for discussion and he slides his hand down to hers, grabs it and walks back, quickly, until he sees the doors they'd come in through starting to open, masked faces visible through the small circular window.

"Here," he whispers, shoving her behind one of the last beds with a partition, and taking his place in front, his back to her.

They're mostly blocked from view, but there isn't much room to move, and he's holding his breath to make sure they stay that way.

His heartbeat starts to slow as sense starts to creep in, and he begins to think about his reaction.

His _over_-reaction.

He'd just dragged his student away from her ailing father. What would the doctors have done, _really_? Surely it wouldn't have been that serious.

The words die in his mind before he can say them, apologize to Rachel, because two nurses run by and Will catches sight of their full body suits, their gloves, masks and goggles.

(It's when he starts to assume this isn't something serious that it becomes just that, he realizes.)

"What—" He turns to her, sees her face red and open and those brown eyes _brown_, not black. He shakes his head and she swallows, but obeys, stops talking.

There are voices now, too, and he hears, "clear" and "milligrams" and other words that he's pretty sure means that the fatality list will get a new name as the new nurses must be joining them down the row.

Will's facing Rachel now, but not looking at her, instead he keeps his sight directed on the clock high on the wall. He's trying to breathe slowly, shallowly, but he can feel Rachel watching him, so close to him, and it's distracting.

(Proximity to Rachel has always been distracting, but not quite like this.)

He hears the beeping of the machines even out, become static, and he steps back a bit.

"Rachel, I'm sorry—" His whisper cuts off as he looks down at her, follows her angled head to the bed beside them.

_Finn_.

He looks like the others; pale, dry lipped, but overall _fine_.

Seeing him like this isn't making anything better. If anything he suddenly feels much, much worse.

Rachel steps forward, reaches her hand out to take her ex-boyfriend's, and Will hears nothing but _quarantine, quarantine, quarantine_, until he stops her, takes her by the wrist and shakes his head. "Don't."

(He's harsher, harder than Kurt had been, but he thinks it might be the right thing to do, now.)

She looks at him with even eyes, darker but still brown, and he thinks she looks almost relieved. He tugs her toward him, opens his arms in the offer of a hug.

Rachel moves toward him but stops short, pulls her hand back, roughly.

(His eyes fall on her again, and he watches her face carefully for a reaction, a spark, something.)

Footsteps thrum on the ground and he steps forward, tries to get them more out of sight and prays that none of them look over here, see them.

_The tea_, he realizes, and his stomach drops.

The tea she'd asked for is sitting, still steaming from its fresh brew, on Leroy's bedside table.

He wants to forget about it, leave it, but the thought of a nurse discovering it, connecting Rachel to being back here, being exposed to the subtle sickness of this flu stops him.

He's warring with himself, wondering if he's overreacting, but if he isn't it means being contained.

It means _her_ being contained.

Will freezes, sucks in a breath before he peeks his head out of the curtain. No one is out there right now, he hears no footsteps, and he whispers, "Stay here," before he's out of the curtain, running down to Leroy Berry and freezing as the man shifts.

Will grabs the cup, turns to leave until he hears a cough.

A very, _very_ weak cough.

He listens a moment, thinks of Rachel alone with a paralyzed Finn, and sighs when he still hears no footsteps, no urgent beeping.

Will chances one more look at Leroy, gripping the potentially life-threatening Styrofoam in his hand.

Leroy's eyes are open.

"Mr. Berry?"

His attention is unfocused, at best, but Will steps forward, reaches for the other man's limp hand.

"Mr. Berry, can you hear me?"

Finally, brown eyes meet his, but they're dark, so dark, just like his daughter's, and he thinks, briefly, _how she can be adopted with exactly his eyes_?

"…my daugh—" He devolves into a cough, and Will wonders what he can see, if he can process that he's talking to the glee club director he's met a dozen times.

"Rachel's fine," his brow furrows like he's trying to place Will. "She's, she tried to see you."

_He needs to leave_. He knows this, but a part of him is hoping that Leroy will snap back, recognize him, and a nurse will come over, shoo Will away but think nothing more of his presence than that.

"Some…someone needs—" more coughing, "call her, her mother…"

Will's own brows furrow but he listens, tries to process what Leroy is telling him, because he can't really think that Shelby is what Rachel needs right now, not after everything last year.

He tries to form a question, but before he can, Leroy's vision shifts, and his eyes roll, before he drifts back into unconsciousness.

Will's gut clenches and he feels for a pulse. When he finds one, strong, all things considering, he feels his own heart pound, hard, before he starts to breathe again, and he backs away, feels his fingers sting as hot water spills over the side of the cup and he walks quickly, _so quickly_ to Rachel.

"C'mon," he barely gets out as he reaches a hand to her but doesn't slow down.

She takes it, her sharp intake of air the only sign that she's paying any attention at all.

He tosses her cup into the trash once they're on the other sides of the doors, by the bathrooms again.

_Safe_, he thinks, and it's silly, really, but he can breathe better on this side, easier.

His fingers are wet from the hot tea and he wipes them on his jeans when he can't help but think _contaminated_ for no good reason.

Will doesn't look at her, not really, just pushes her toward the lobby and follows her closely, taking the seat by the corner again.

He's sitting on his jacket, the zipper is digging into the underside of his thigh, but his attention is all focused on Rachel.

"What the _hell_ do you think you were doing?"

He isn't quite sure why he's angry, _this_ angry, but he is, and he can't help but see Rachel's single father instructing him as he glares at her.

Her eyes are brown still, not black, _not black_. But she looks scared, again, her face as open as when he watched her on the park bench.

His fury fizzles a little as he sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Rachel." She swallows harshly, he can see her jaw clench with the action, but she just looks down.

He thinks he should say something more, offer her comfort, a shoulder to lean on, but it all just seems weak in comparison to the sheer terror he'd felt behind those swinging doors.

(Instead he sits in silence, chancing glances at Rachel as often as he can manage.)

She hasn't said anything yet, either, and he isn't sure what it means. Her cheeks, wet with tears and red with effort to breathe, are now dry and pale. So, so pale.

Will knows what he _should_ do, that he owes it to Rachel and Leroy to tell the slightly shaking girl beside him that he'd woken, asked about her.

He can't. The words are formed in his mind but stuck in his throat, and he clears his throat for no words a dozen times.

()()()

He gives her his jacket at some point as they sit there, waiting for nothing.

(It sits there, between them, untouched.)

A phone vibrates against the hard plastic chairs, and Will knows it's Rachel's, though she doesn't reach for it.

Minutes later, his own buzzes. He knows it's Kurt.

**Is Rachel with you? Mercedes woke up and she was gone.**

His text back is immediate, assuaging their fears, and he stares at Rachel, watches her sit, unmoving, no attempt to even read her own.

He's been concerned, worried about her since last week, but seeing the evidence of her apathy, the quickness of her change between grieving on her father to stoic and blank next to him, leaves him breathless.

He doesn't know what to do, how to fix this, anything.

(He doesn't know how to fix _her_.)

She's not making any motion to read it, and it's obvious to him, now, that she may be unconcerned with others, but more than that she believes that there is a complete lack of concern for her.

He's been sitting with her for hours, and he worries that that means nothing to her, does nothing to assuage that fear.

(The thought that _his _concern means nothing hurts more than expected.)

()()()

It's Monday, he has to go and teach, proctor exams, something like that, because it's the last week of school, and Nationals is in four days.

(He's starting to think that words like _competition _and _recognition_ are meaningless, but a part of him still feels the drive to try.)

Still, he can't just leave Rachel alone, not now, especially, despite the complete lack of acknowledgement she's given him since she took his jacket and set it immediately back down.

He taps his foot in a twisted rhythm, until the shadows of Kurt and Quinn and Mercedes obscure the floor he's staring at.

They take their seats around each other, and Will catches Rachel's frown deepen when she looks over at the other girls. He scans the lobby, feeling suddenly awake, and his eyes land on Carole, tucked into a far corner, alone.

Will wonders when she had gotten there, wonders if she's been here since the visit he and Rachel had with her son. Briefly the idea of telling her they saw him crosses his mind, but as soon as it entered it's gone; the knowledge would do nothing to comfort her, would only make things worse.

His watch reads 7:15, and he has to leave, see his students, take the attendance that will tell him truths he doesn't want to learn.

He has to see Shannon, and Emma. He has to make sure the people he cares about are not residents in the building he's been in far too much these last few days.

When he stands, his shoulders pop, his back aches, and his head pounds.

He says something to Kurt that he means but doesn't really process, squeezes Quinn's shoulder, and smiles hesitantly at Mercedes.

(He wants to say goodbye to Rachel but the word flickers with flame in his mind, and he knows it would taste of ash.)

He offers to drive them, any of them, to school, hopes they'll take him up on his offer. He doesn't like the thought of them sitting here all day, doesn't like the implication that it's necessary.

No one takes him up on his offer, and he turns, steps outside, into the slowly rising sunlight and squints against the natural light.

"Mr. Schue!" He turns, sees Mercedes following him, and smiles as brightly as he can muster. "I'll ride with you."

His car is near the front of the lot this time, and when he opens the passenger door Mercedes snorts. "Geez, Mr. Schue, are you sure this'll make it to McKinley?"

Her tone is light and teasing and completely out of place for what his life has been for a week.

He feels his chest expanding, and his deep breath out is so therapeutic tears sting his eyes.

"It's a little worse for the wear, huh?" Her smile is wide, but hesitant, and she's touched by this horror but not the way Kurt is, Quinn is.

(Not the way Rachel is.)

He thinks he should be able to identify more with her, that they're both watching this unfold to the same people, the same way, their relationships to those sick people similar. But his smile feels smaller, he thinks it's worse for him, that his smiles will never be that bright again.

He chalks it up to age, settles into the comfortable air that settles between them in the enclosed space as his muffler grumbles and growls, low.

It feels like the pressure is off, like he doesn't have to toe the same line because Mercedes' parents aren't lying in the hospital, there's no danger of leaving a cup of tea that will get her sent to a quarantine.

The drive is quiet, he muses, and his fingers slide to the radio knob to turn it on, adjusts until he hears a clear voice.

"…_have been reports across the country now, of extreme cases of influenza. The strand is severe, mutating and_…"

He stops listening as the few cars in front of him slow, and he looks across Mercedes' seat, out her window to see a car slammed into an electric pole, another car pressed up behind it until the headlights are just inches from the windshield.

_Like an accordion_, he can't help but muse, and the thought disgusts him as he processes the ambulance beside the wreck, the people standing around crying, and holding each other.

The cars in front of him speed up, again, information gained, and he wonders if the sickness, the _flu_, is involved, or if it was more pedestrian, a teen texting, a drunk driver.

He hates to find himself hoping it was due to the latter.

"Quinn made me leave," her voice is quiet, defensive, like she needs him to know that she didn't voluntarily leave her friend to go with him.

He nods, pats her knee comfortingly before putting his hands back on the wheel. "She just needs some time to think, Mercedes. You did the right thing, giving her some space. Listening to what she was asking you for."

His words are as much for himself as they are for her. He decides that if Rachel won't forgive him for leaving that first night, then he'll have to forgive himself.

()()()

His first stop once they get to McKinley is to see Emma. He'd stared at his phone in the waiting room every minute he hadn't been staring at the entrance or Rachel, and the only reason he'd been able to keep himself from calling to make sure she was alright, healthy and alive, is the intense need to have Emma be safe and at peace.

He'll give anything for her to not experience that same panic he has on and off these past days. He'll give anything for Emma to live thinking this flu is nothing, until this all passes and the country is healthy again.

Will waves to Mercedes and sees her head down the hall to where Mike and Tina are standing by the drinking fountain.

A brief shudder goes through him as he pictures the rest of his students at the hospital, be it in beds or the lobby.

He turns then, heads straight to Emma's office, his breath catching until he sees her, her fingers wrapped around the pump on her bottle of hand sanitizer.

When she looks up, she smiles and he thinks he might cry. Her smile holds none of the terror his being does, and he thinks he can see her glow, even, from the purity she embodies.

"Good morning, Will."

He breathes out and drops down into the seat across from her, and he's used to the seat being one of friendship or of failing relationship, but it means neither right now, because he sees it as simple possibilities.

"Will, you don't look so well, are you feeling alright?"

His eyes start to tear, and this isn't his intention, this isn't why he came to her, but he's been trying to get through to Rachel, to talk to her for days, and it feels _so good_ to have someone ask about him.

"Oh, Will, what's wrong?"

And her voice is just too _caring_, so damn sweet and warm and everything he's wanted for years now. He's not crying, not really, but the pressure in his head is excruciating, and there's a steady thrumming behind his eyes.

"It's—" he clears his throat. "It's nothing, really. I've just been having trouble sleeping." Her eyes are wide, open and trusting, and she's taking his answer for what it is and he both loves and hates that.

He wants her to push him, to make him tell her why he's a grown man ready to cry in his kind-of former girlfriend's office before school, because everything _feels wrong_.

Except voicing any of this makes it more real, and forming the words to tell her what he's feeling seems dramatic, an over-reaction, and he can't decide if it is one or not.

She gives him a small smile, satisfied by his answer and there's a sad settling in his stomach that feels like resignation.

()()()

His attendance sheet is almost half of what is should be.

The realization only causes muted acceptance and the grateful thought that no more of his glee club were on that missing list.

()()()

Lunch is quiet, and Emma watches Will as he picks at the greasy pizza from the cafeteria.

Their conversation is weak, and Will tries to find out if Shannon and Emma have anyone they care about in hospitals, or if any of them are sick.

From what he's gathered, and their still-present sense of humor, muted from the thick air around them but not gone, they're fine, at the moment.

He feels an odd sense of disappointment and loneliness and resentment that they can't identify with him.

()()()

The last few teachers in the lounge are leaving when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Will glances around, looks from Emma to Shannon, talking about something Sue did or said or something they wanted to do or say back.

He checks the number.

Kurt.

**Finn.**

He knows, immediately, that it's not good news. His stomach turns, churning the few bites of pizza he'd managed to get down, and he excuses himself, fumbles with words and tossing his trash before he leaves the room and makes a beeline for his office, where he can close the door and react.

He dials his student quickly, his thumb twitching against the wrong numbers twice.

The other line rings, once, twice, three times.

It worries him, since Kurt had _just_ sent the text.

Four times.

Five times.

It _really _worries him.

"_Mr. Schue_?"

_Oh, God._ Kurt's voice is broken and wavers, and it's all the confirmation he needs.

His throat feels raw, and when he swallows the thick molasses of his own grief does nothing to soothe the ache.

It takes everything in him to force out the question Kurt needs him to ask. "How is Finn—"

"_He got worse_." Kurt chokes it out like it was the only moment he could speak the words, and Will is grateful he's standing above his desk chair because his legs aren't feeling very stable as he sits down, catches the hitch in Kurt's voice that tells him there's more.

"_Finn had a seizure, another one, and the doctors_," there's a sniffle, "_they said his body turned on him_."

He feels a sudden grip of nausea and wishes he hadn't eaten that pizza.

"How is Carole doing?" The question is stupid, insensitive, almost, because the answer is obvious in Kurt's tone, his wet words and the clipped conversation.

Kurt ignores the question, maybe on purpose, maybe because there are more important things going on around him, but instead he just asks a question. "_Can you tell them, there? I don't, I just, _can't_, say it again_."

Will thinks he sounds very much like a child, his voice scared and hesitant and full of something almost like awe.

"Of course." The phone clicks and he sets it down on his desk, pinches the bridge of his nose.

When he stands his blood races through his veins, and when his vision grows spotty he has to reach out, blindly grip the edge of the desk until it passes, the cool sweat on his brow dries and his body can stand straight, again.

()()()

He doesn't tell them right away. He waits, makes it through his last class of the day, and it feels dishonest not to tell them, and cowardly.

(He realizes a part of him is hoping that someone else will find out and spread the word.)

He makes it to glee and the half of the club still present looks sad, quiet, but not scared, not nervous or empty or alone, and he knows immediately that they don't know, that to them, Finn is still sick with a flu.

His students are untouched by the implications of what this is, of what is going on, and he would trade anything in this moment to keep it that way.

In the back, Mike grips Tina's hand, and she smiles up at him reassuringly. Mercedes sits a chair away from Tina, and Artie is next to Brittany, Santana at her side, and he wonders if Lauren is with Puck, moral support, or if there's another name he has to worry about, pray for.

(It's sick and wrong that he feels grateful that it's her, that it's the one of them that's been _them_ the least amount of time, because he doesn't want to pick and choose his family, but there are those he has to protect more, now, fiercer.)

She shuffles in as he watches Brittany link pinkies with her best friend, and he smiles wider at her, his guilt at the willingness to sacrifice her blunt and sudden.

It's swallowed by surprise as Puck rounds the archway of the open door, his eyes dark, his jacket hanging open on his shoulders and his jaw tight. He's shocked, judging by his displays of rage and frustration, his penchant to storm off until only his mother or Quinn can bring him back, that he's here, at school.

But he's happy, then, to see him out of that bleak hospital, away from sickness and death and the thin, thin line between hope and hopelessness.

Puck looks at him, his expression hard but determined, and Will wonders if Ms. Puckerman had to force him out of the hospital or if that had been left to the blonde, too.

Lauren sits on the end of the second riser and Puck stands beside her, as if he's ready to flee in an instant.

(He wonders if Puck knows, already, or if his words are going to cause that need for escape.)

"Guys, I have to tell you something." Will has never been good at bad news, doesn't like it, and so he looks around, hopes and prays for someone to jump to the conclusion he so badly doesn't want to voice.

When his eyes land on Santana, the pizza rumbles around again, protests the thoughts he's thinking.

Her hair is down, limp, almost, her color is different, off, and her eyes are heavy lidded, her pupils large, making her eyes darker than they should be.

She smiles softly at him and her eyes crinkle, and he thinks she's asking him, then, not to tell, not to point it out despite the emphatic news anchors telling citizens to quarantine themselves, despite his memory of shuffling Rachel out of her reunion with her father.

He just looks down a moment, clears his throat and decides that he doesn't have to watch them, he doesn't have to tell them about their friend, their _family_, and also have to look them when they're spoken.

"Finn, his, uh, his condition," he looks up, finally, but doesn't make eye contact. There are too many to even try.

(It's strange, he thinks, that the more people there are around the less connected you feel to anyone.)

"Worsened."

There are gasps and sniffles and he knows without looking that Mike is holding Tina's hand and Artie's clutching his knee caps but looking at Mercedes and Brittany's head is on Santana's shoulder and Puck's fingers are curled over Lauren's shoulder.

If things had been different, if Finn was the only one, he wonders who Rachel would have had for comfort, in a room full of distant family.

"Is he OK?" The question is Artie's, but when he looks up at his and the others' expectant faces, he catches sight of Santana, her face drawn, her shoulder stiff beneath Brittany's ear and her paling face even paler.

He's always known Santana was bright, quicker than anyone gave her credit for, and he hates that this is how he confirms his suspicions.

Will watches her a moment, their eyes meeting before she looks down, reaches for Brittany's hand and holds it completely, her pinky curling over the other girl's but not linking; rather, sitting there, resting—connecting. Colliding.

"No, he's," his voice cracks and he can feel the tight lines of his face where tears are striping through. "He passed away."

Tina's sob cuts the choir room first, but he loses track of the rest of it and he refuses to watch it happen, so he doesn't look up. Instead he props his foot on the low rung of the stool he's sitting on and hangs his head further, digs his fingers into the belt at his waist that feels just a little looser.

"This is bullshit!" The clang of cymbals and overturned drums snaps his focus back and he catches Puck pull his arm out of Brittany's grasp before he leaves.

(Puck doesn't look at him, doesn't even acknowledge his presence and it's alright; he wishes it isn't true, too.)

The dismissal is succinct when he mumbles it before he closes the door to his office.

()()()

He collapses on his couch like he does most nights home from work, but the memory of the choir room is burning him and the heat of the fire adds more weight than he can bear.

Will feels more useless than ever; he wants to check in at the hospital, but Kurt is the one that asks him, invites him and gives him a reason to stay.

(Without Kurt he has no way to reach them, to reach _her._)

His anguish is more exhausting than he'd realized, and he's falling asleep before he can decide if he should just go, anyway.

()()()

Will's getting tired of waking up to the shrill noise of his cell phone in his ear.

(Mostly, it's the immediate ice-water terror that accompanies the sound.)

"'Lo?"

"_Mr. Schue_?" He pulls the phone away from his ear and doesn't recognize the number, but the voice starts to register so he sits up.

"Mercedes? Are you alright?"

He cringes at his question; it's not the sick that are making the calls, dealing with the tedium of sickness, of death.

"_I'm fine, Mr. Schue_." Her tone is warm but trembling, and his first thought is _another one_. "_Kurt told me to call you_."

"Is he alright?"

(He's so _done_ with having to ask that question.)

"_We're both fine. Kurt went home with his parents after_…" he knows, lets her roll over the truth he isn't sure has sunken in, fully. "_He asked me to stay with Quinn and Rachel_."

He hesitates. "How are they?"

"_Worried_."

He'd been able to read Kurt, know what the boy was trying to tell him, he thinks. He's not quite sure what Mercedes is saying, right now.

"Of course," and it's more to fill silence.

"_No, I mean they're more worried. The doctors say they have some kind of treatment_." He sits up, swipes at his eyes. "_It's experimental_."

She hasn't invited him, not like Kurt does, but he's muttering that he'll be there soon before he's throwing his cell phone into his jacket pocket and testing the taste of _experimental treatment_ on his tongue.

()()()

"Can I talk to you a moment?"

His drive to the hospital was fast and he's back in the too-familiar room he'd rather never see again.

"Sure," Mercedes pats Quinn on the back before leaving the chairs, and Will looks over to see Rachel flipping a magazine, her eyes nowhere near the text.

Will stops by the entryway into the little kitchenette, not comfortable being completely out of Quinn and Rachel's sight.

"Tell me about this treatment." His voice is tight, guarded, and he thinks his crossed arms and hunched shoulders tell her that, too.

Mercedes is quick to explain, and he thinks that she must not sense his hesitancy, or if she does, she realizes that it's not her job to do more then tell him the facts.

"There's a lab nearby that's been working on a vaccination. A few doctors came in a couple of hours ago, and talked with some other doctors. Then, one came over to talk to Quinn and Rachel."

"What did they say about the vaccination?"

Mercedes looks over to the girls, and Will notices that Puck is sitting by them, too, with his mom. When she looks back, her brow is furrowed, and she looks like she's holding something back.

"They've tested it on rats and stuff, and it's been successful." She looks down. "Most of the time."

"Have they tried this on humans at all?"

This all seems wrong, like a mistake. Lima isn't the science capital of the world, not even the state, and he hasn't heard anything about this.

(The news is on constantly, but he's been ignoring it, too.)

She shakes her head. "That's why they're giving the decision to the family members."

When he looks over, he sees Quinn, tucked into herself, and isn't sure what will happen. "Are they considering it?"

"Quinn and Rachel are." He waits, wonders why Puck isn't. "Puck's already told them to give it to Kyla."

It seems odd, Puck giving the nurse or doctor or lab technician the order for his little sister, but when he catches sight of Ms. Puckerman, her face gaunt and her lips trembling he thinks that maybe, he hadn't even scraped the surface of Puck's role in his family.

"Do you know what the others are thinking?"

He wonders if it's easier or harder to have to decide this on your own without anyone else.

Santana and Brittany step into his sightline, and they take a seat next to Quinn, filling in the space between her and Rachel.

"They haven't said anything, yet."

He nods, and she turns, walks over to the other girls. Santana doesn't look better, but she doesn't look worse, he realizes, as he draws nearer the group.

Will sits down across from his students, his seat almost exactly across from Brittany, in between Quinn and Rachel.

The girls are almost exact opposites at the same time they are identical, grieving together.

Quinn is lightness, blonde hair and delicate features and porcelain skin, Santana on one side and Brittany on the other, their hands resting together on her lap, their fingers squeezing in a show of support.

But for all that Quinn is light, Rachel is dark; deep brown hair framing olive skin, her too big nose and mouth twisted down in a grimace, her fingers clutching themselves between her knees, alone without friends flanking each side, without two that care for her the way they care for Quinn.

(He catches her look, the resignation in her eyes as she catches sight of the entwined fingertips, the unspoken support for the blonde she wishes to be.)

He's starting to feel wrong, worthless watching them and offering nothing, so his voice cuts the thick air of the hospital lobby. "I heard about the vaccine."

Santana's head drops, squeezes the blonde's hand harder, but Brittany looks at him, and he wonders why she'd tell one best friend and not the other.

Her blank stare is answer enough, and Quinn's smile is watery when it's aimed at him.

Rachel is watching him, he can feel it, but he doesn't think he can look at her, not when she's so _alone_, and ask her such a tough question. "What are you thinking?"

Quinn takes a breath. His relationship to her has never been normal or static; he's never quite sure where he stands with Quinn. He's curious about her answer, hopes she's thinking it through, weighing the options. He's never felt comfortable giving her advice, though. In many ways, she reminds him of Terri; so _in control_.

Rachel is watching Quinn now, like the rest of them, and he wonders if, maybe, she's already made a choice. "I—it sounds dangerous." And really, that's a joke because this is all _dangerous_.

But he smiles softly and nods, sees her lean her head down on Santana's fingers, curled around her shoulder.

Brittany whispers to her friends, and Will looks over at Rachel, slowly.

"Have you made a decision?"

Rachel just clears her throat, shakes her head. Her eyes are glassy, dry from lack of sleep, he's sure. "I don't know."

Her eyes won't settle despite their fatigue, and her lips get thinner and thinner as she looks over at Puck.

(She's lying, he knows. She's made her decision.)

He leans back against the hard plastic.

()()()

Later, the girls take Quinn home, but Rachel refuses tonight. Kurt has stopped by already, gotten her to acknowledge him, but not much else.

(He doesn't blame the boy, but realizes that he'd been too tired to fight her tonight.)

No one else comes by, and he thinks that, maybe, Mike and Tina and Artie and Lauren's families have said _no_, have decided to heed the warning of the quarantine.

Will watches when Mercedes nudges at Rachel's foot, attempts to joke on the smallest scale, but their friendship is tenuous without Kurt, and eventually she looks to him for permission he has no right to give.

She leaves with Santana and Brittany and Quinn, who's decided to _sleep on it_, in regards to the fate of her mother.

Puck still sits in the hospital, though he's moved over, next to Rachel, now.

Mrs. Puckerman is gone, though Will isn't sure to where.

He hasn't seen either of the Evans parents all night. He is too weak to check, to find out if their names are on an ever-growing list of those admitted, or if, rather, they're facing the fate of Carole, a fate far too terrible to muse on for more than a second.

"I saw Finn." His head snaps up from his phone, ignores the blank text he's trying to form and sees Rachel, talking to Puck.

(It hurts that she's talking to someone else, letting them in, but he tries to be grateful she's speaking to anyone.)

"What?" The other boy's voice is low, gravelly and guarded.

(Neither seem to register, or care about, his presence.)

"I went back there, to see my dad." She gestures with her head to the doors by the restrooms. "And I saw Finn, too." Puck's eyes narrow, but she continues. "He looked fine. Healthy, even. I could have believed he was sleeping, in fact."

Puck leans back, like she'd hit him.

(They continue like he's not even there.)

"Fuck, Rachel!" His head ducks down, closer to hers. "You can't just tell me shit like that."

She doesn't apologize, doesn't back away from him, and she doesn't tell Puck that he was there, with her, the whole time.

"I think my dad should get the vaccine."

Puck doesn't really react, but they both watch her leave, go toward a nurse.

"Where the hell were you?" Puck's face is dark, _very _dark, and his eyes are narrowed. Will thinks, briefly, that it's inappropriate for Puck to talk to him like that.

He stammers for a response, but Puck's anger and his own realization that he'd _fucked up, big time_ was starting to sink in, and instead he sits there with his mouth open until Rachel comes back.

She breathes out, deeply.

The silence around them is pointed now, he knows, as Puck scoots closer to Rachel and throws him dark looks every once in a while.

He can only bear it another minute before he stands. "Will you two be alright?"

It's cowardly and he knows it but Puck barely waves him away before he's sitting in his car, wondering how he could leave them there.

(A second later he's realizing that he couldn't have done anything, had he stayed.)

|DAY 13|

When he wakes the next morning, it's to his regular alarm, in his room, at 6:30 in the morning.

(The normality of it all seems worse than the confusion and chaos.)

His phone is in his hand in an instant, checking for missed texts and unheard calls.

He has neither.

During his shower, he can only see Puck and Rachel, sitting in the lobby as they wait, alone.

He can only think of how he'd abandoned them when he'd felt uncomfortable.

The news is on again, he must have forgotten to turn it off last night, but the anchors say nothing important so he eats flavorless eggs and drinks too much coffee.

He thinks about Emma on his drive to work, wonders if he's calling her too much, or not enough.

He wonders if he should be driving to the hospital first, if he's supposed to be checking on Puck and Quinn and Rachel.

()()()

Emma is in her office, straightening her bookshelf and smoothing her hands over the green print of her pencil skirt.

"Emma," he breathes, and she turns to him with a smile.

Their relationship right now is confusing; they're more than friends but less than _together_ and he isn't sure what he can ask of her anymore.

(He isn't sure what he _wants _to ask of her.)

Her smile is quick, but not quite as bright as he's become used to and it worries him.

(He sees a room, full of people, all quiet and breathing and being but not _living_.)

"Good morning, Will." She seems unsurprised to see him there, and they have been together more often over the last month, but they aren't back to what they were before Terri left and he kissed Shelby and regrets became the only thing he knows.

When he waits too long to respond to her, her pretty, delicate brow furrows, and he feels it start, the hot hot heat of tears behind his eyes.

"Will? You look b—I mean, you don't look _bad_, you never look, but I mean, is there something wrong?" She's setting down whatever is in her hand, and rounding her desk, and he feels _all of it_, all of the struggle of the past week start to sink in, and he can't do this anymore, this keeping it to himself and not telling Emma, not having someone to confide in.

He sits. He has to blink the tears back before he can tell her but she's always been patient and sweet and everything Terri wasn't, so she takes a seat in the other chair and reaches for his hand.

(Her fingers are so delicate beneath his, so tiny and feminine and _breakable_, and he feels like he should be the last one given that kind of responsibility.)

He's been avoiding her eyes, those round, trusting eyes, because he hasn't felt very trustworthy since any of this started. When his voice quivers, he looks up. "Finn passed away last night."

It's not quite the truth, he'd died around noon, but he can't bring himself to say that he'd died then, so early, and face the implications of why he'd waited so long to tell her.

(He's learning that the truth isn't everything it's supposed to be, that lies are the only things that give us hope, in the end.)

"Oh, Will," and she's reaching her short arms awkwardly out to him, and he hugs her, crosses the tentative lines he's been clinging too, telling himself that he needs to protect the future of whatever they are, whatever they're going to become.

(He crosses the final line and it's so freeing because he's realizing that maybe, there's nothing to aim for, nothing to protect and build for the future. That the only thing worth his effort right now is something to cling on to. Something to remind him that _he's _not sick, that _she's_ not sick.)

He doesn't sob, or exhaust himself or anything more than a minute of deep breathing against her sweet-smelling, soft cardigan.

(It's too good and he thinks that this could become addictive. He knows he can get addicted to her, to them, like this.)

()()()

It's the last day of classes, he realizes, halfway through his second period, Spanish II class. He always has them watch a film, an easy way to kill the last few hours. There are less than fifteen students across both classes, and it isn't until then that it dawns on him that several usually don't bother showing up.

The thought is so heady, such an immense relief that the dozen fewer faces aren't from sickness and fevers and terror, but of _apathy_; he's missing so many students because, like every other year, they elect to goof off, to go have fun.

It's such a normal occurrence that he can't help but smile.

(He's never been so thrilled to consider being wrong; that there _is _a future, something to build toward, something to work for.)

()()()

"Kurt?"

He hasn't heard from the boy since the news about Finn, which he understands, of course. But he's grateful to receive the call just a few minutes before lunch.

"_Mr. Schue_."

His voice is, while not normal, better. "How are you doing?"

"_I don't know_." There's a short pause, and then, lower, "_Thank you, for asking. When I figure it out, I'll let you know_."

Will just nods, wondering what the young man will tell him, today.

"_Kyla and Rachel's dad just got the vaccine_."

Kurt doesn't mention Quinn, Will notices. "Is it working?"

"_It's too soon to tell_."

"Did Quinn decide not to?"

Kurt hesitates, his voice catches over the phone. "_She's still deciding, actually. Her dad showed up, but I think his presence is just making everything worse_."

Will doesn't know every little thing about his glee club, but he knows enough to agree that Russell Fabray's presence is most likely more harmful than helpful.

"Will you keep me—"

"_Of course, Mr. Schue_." There's almost a smile in Kurt's voice, not happy, but resigned. _He knows his role_, Will decides, and is infinitely grateful for everything Kurt's done to involve him.

"Thank you, Kurt."

He hopes that he'll be able to repay him.

(He hopes he'll get the chance.)

()()()

Lunch is the best it's been in two weeks, until Will realizes that Nationals are tomorrow. Or, they would have been.

He's just chatting with Emma and Shannon and ignoring Sue's random insults that are no more than background with everything else that's going on, until Shannon mentions the football bus, something about new wheels for next year.

That's when it all breaks; he's been tentatively content, the knowledge that there's a vaccine, that they're trying to fix this, that his students skipped because his films bore them, and he'll be able to repeat his system next year, or change it, or _whatever_, because things are getting better.

But _next year_ said aloud is different, and he's the only one that pauses in chewing, that looks around and sees missing teachers and dying plants and empty employee parking spaces out the window.

And _next year_ means Nationals and competing and other things he wants so badly, but more than that he wants to do it all with his family, his students and friends.

Before he knows it he's deciding there were no students skipping his class, but rather a sudden increase in illness, a mini epidemic in the bigger one he's experiencing.

"Hey, Will, what do you think?"

Shannon's still asking about tires and football and new freshman potential, and Will can't answer because his stomach feels like it's bubbling, churning and eating away at his organs.

()()()

He goes through his next two classes, pretending to watch a movie he's seen a hundred times at the same time he tries not to watch his phone, motionless on his desk.

He's still not sure what Quinn has decided in regards to her mother and the cure, and he's too worried that any inquiry will be pushing, in a time when only Quinn can make this decision.

Will wonders how she's handling things, with her father back in the picture. He's grateful, even if she is not, that she isn't alone.

(He wishes the same were true for Rachel.)

The movie is dull, truthfully, and he understands why so many of his students skip the final days. If he's honest with himself, this film _never_ kept his attention, not even the first time.

()()()

It's just minutes before glee and he hasn't heard more from Kurt. He's packing up some of his things for the summer break, trying to kill time until he can see his club, as decimated as it is.

When it's finally time, he breathes out, and takes the detour past Emma's office. She's talking with a student about something, light judging by her smile, and he continues on toward the choir room.

It's empty, lights off when he opens the door, but that's not unusual, really. The only one that ever really arrives early is Rachel, sometimes Kurt.

Will putters, tries to tidy up things so he doesn't have as much to do next week, and pointedly ignores the loud ticking of the clock in the silent room.

Glee is the last period of the day, and he's starting to wonder if maybe the club is confused, if they're not sure they're meeting today or if they're done, with everything going on.

He sits at the piano, plays the few notes he knows, tries to form melodies that don't mirror that damn clock.

It's fifteen minutes before he decides that something is _wrong_, and pulls his phone from his pocket, wonders if he's missed a call.

He hasn't.

The worry intensifies, and he calls Kurt, first, because he's come to rely on the boy's willingness to include him, to explain things almost as quickly as he needs.

Kurt's too-cheery message greets him, and he drops the phone to the seat beside him in anger, because he doesn't know what to do, how to respond.

He stands, walks to the hallway and peeks his head out, half expecting to see no one, a desertion that only he is ignorant of.

_That's not the case_, he muses in fear and relief, an odd combination he can't muse on now, not when so many students are laughing with each other in the halls.

It's strange, but it reflects the divide between him and Emma, Shannon; the students in the school seem happy, normal and untouched by this sickness, whereas the empty, unused lockers show his own situation; _too_ touched by the sickness, too involved.

He slides back into the choir room, before he picks up his phone, tries Mercedes.

"_Hello_?" Her tone is worried, suspicious, almost.

"Mercedes. Do you know where everyone is? No one is at glee right now."

She hesitates and it's audible, in the way that there's nothing, no sound for a full minute.

"_Have you heard from Kurt at all_?"

His chest is starting to pound, and it feels like thunder, rolling and crackling and far more powerful than it should be.

"Not since this morning."

"_Stuff's been happening, Mr. Schue_." Will loves Mercedes, but he has no patience for this, not right now, because he'd just been slightly worried about the empty room and now lightning is starting to prickle at the back of his neck.

"What kind of stuff?" He closes the door, takes a seat in his swivel chair by the piano.

"_Kurt's dad, he, at eleven this morning…he was working in his shop, trying to blow off steam, and he was alone_."

Will _hates_ where this is going.

"He_, it was a heart attack. And no one was with him. Kurt went to check on him at eleven thirty, but…_"

"It was too late," his voice sounds defeated to his own ears.

_How is Kurt_ is what he wants to ask, but the answer won't make him happy, so he doesn't. "Is he with anyone?"

"_He's with Carole_." Her voice is tight, and he thinks that, maybe, she's not saying everything.

"Is anything else happening?" His voice is authoritative, his lecture voice, and he needs her to listen to it, to tell him how his family is.

"_Santana caught it. Brittany took her to the hospital, but they said no_."

"_No_? What do you mean?"

"_They were out of beds_."

_Oh, God, the implications of that_. "Where did she go?"

"_Brittany brought her back to her house, and Brittany's mom called her parents. I don't know what happened after that_."

Will wonders how she knows all this, why he knew nothing. His head is swimming but all he has are questions. "What about Puck's sister, Rachel's dad? Did Quinn decide on the vaccine or not?"

There's a small sigh, but it's not to brace herself for more bad news and he stamps the hope down that rises up inside of him. _Not yet_.

"_They got the vaccine last night, and Kyla, she's, well, they think she's healing. Her fever broke this morning, and she's conscious, not feeling any nausea or numbness, and no seizures_."

"That's fantastic," he rushes on a breath he's been holding for almost two weeks. "Same for Rachel's dad?"

A long pause. "_Not yet, actually. He's still unconscious. Once Kyla started getting better, Quinn asked the nurse for the vaccine._" Will squirms in his chair. "_They had already given it out to other patients_."

He isn't sure where to go anymore, his head is too jumbled. "Are you at the hospital?"

"_No. I'm at home. They kicked all non-family members out of the lobby. A nurse told us it had been a really busy day, that there were too many patients. Once Kyla started getting better they sent her home_."

"Already?"

"_She started getting better almost right after they gave it to her, I think they assumed that all of the patients would get better just as fast, and they had to make room_."

"Thanks, thank you," and he's hanging up, dropping his phone because there are too many thoughts drifting through his head.

_Kurt's dad is dead. Died of a _heart attack._ All of this shit is going down and his father dies of a fucking _heart attack. _Puck's sister is better, getting better._ The hope he feels at the last thought outweighs the tragedy of Burt's fate, he's reluctant to admit. But Burt living wouldn't prove anything, not like Kyla living.

(He wonders how Rachel feels, if she thinking it should be _her dad_, if she's angry.)

After he hangs up he stays there, just sitting. Mercedes hadn't told him where the rest of the club was, but she'd implied they were with someone, maybe Kurt.

Either way, he decides he can't just sit here in silence, can't just wait for something.

He packs his bag, heads out.

(He ignores the _Good Luck, Seniors!_ sign that hangs above the entrance, and crosses the threshold.)

()()()

He isn't sure what to do, until he decides that doing nothing is worse. Sitting on his couch, he pulls out his phone, sends Kurt a text.

(It's cowardly and implies a disconnect between them, but he just can't do more, not right now.)

**I'm sorry about your dad, Kurt**.

The boy doesn't text him back.

()()()

Will walks around his apartment, aimlessly.

(There are records on in the background, music notes he doesn't hear and lyrics he doesn't sing.)

Finally, he snatches his keys and phone, decides he has to take a walk.

He realizes he hasn't seen Emma since before glee, and the influx of illness scares him into dialing her number.

"_Will_?"

"Emma," it's breathy and he stutters on the Ms. "How are you feeling?"

"_I'm fine_…" she sounds confused. "_Is this about that flu? You seem to be asking me how I am quite often._" There's a dull thud and he thinks she might be making dinner, chopping vegetables.

"Yes." He can't lie, not right now, and he prays she accepts that, tells him she's fine.

"_I feel fine, Will_." There's a smile in his voice and the gentle sound is everything he wants. He almost asks her to come over, to sit with him and let him see that she's fine because she can't get sick, _she can't_.

"_I have to go, I've got some food in the oven. Can I talk to you later_?" Her Os are honey and sugar and he stops walking, leans his back against a building and nods, even if she can't see him.

"Yes."

"_Good night, Will_."

Before he can slide the phone back in his pocket, his phone vibrates.

"Hello?" It's a number he hasn't seen, it's not Kurt or Mercedes.

"_Mr. Schue_?"

He gulps, surprised. "Puck, I heard about your sister. I'm so glad," he rushes out, feeling uncomfortable since the accusation he'd seen in his student's eyes just a night ago.

"_Rachel's dad just died_." There's no preamble, no stuttered words or hesitant phrasing.

"Oh, God, how is she?"

Puck snorts, and he thinks again about he'd not been a father figure to Puck, only to Finn. "_Not well_."

(Puck's never treated him this way, and he's thrown off by the anger.)

"Does she need—"

His voice eases a bit, and Will waits for the bite. "_No, Mercedes is going to take her in, at least until they can figure out what to do_."

Will thinks of Shelby first, of Leroy's last words, words he'd stolen from Rachel's ears when he'd shoved her toward Finn's bed, hid her behind the curtain.

"Do—"

"_I just thought you should know. Look, I gotta go, check on Kyla_."

"Yeah, tha—" _Click_. "ks, Puck."

The sense of failure is thick as Will walks back home, suddenly sick of the fresh air.

()()()

He's back for no more than twenty minutes before he decides he can't take it, can't just sit and think about Leroy and Hiram and Burt and Sam and Santana and Quinn's mom, and Finn. He can't think about Brittany and Sam's brother and Kurt and Quinn and Rachel, of the people that have experienced tragedies no one should, suddenly and too forcefully.

He calls him mom, for something to do, and she's alive but too drunk to get anymore than the fact that his dad is at a poker game. He texts Terri and while he listens to Shannon tentatively tell him that her dad is sick he gets her response: **im fine**.

The rounds take too short of a time, and Will wonders if he should call Rachel, check in with her. Except she'd asked him to leave the first night and ignored him last night and maybe he really isn't wanted or needed, and he should respect her wishes.

Still, the need to help or escape or _something_ is overwhelming, and before he can consider the consequences he's dialing Emma, asking to come over.

Her voice is shocked, hesitant, but she agrees in the end.

(It's been a long time since he's been so reckless, he's been trying to improve but the need to see her, to hear her is too strong and he can't hold back any longer. )

He's in his car before the warning bells start to ring in the distance, their muted calls of _this won't end well_, and _you'll regret this_.

()()()

"Hi," she's smiling bashfully, and he thinks it's appropriate because he feels _strange_, like his blood is starting to boil, but he's not sure yet what that means, exactly.

"Hey," she opens the door wider, and he catches sight of yellow gloves in her hand holding to door open. Her mysophobia is at once just one more concern, but also something minor, familiar, in a way. It's not unknown diseases and orphaned teens and growing up far, far too fast.

His drive over had been spent trying decide how much to tell her, what she needs to know and what she never needs to visualize. _Ever_.

She's watching him, he can feel her eyes, as he steps further into her home. For all the times she's been to his, he's never actually been inside hers, not more than the living room, feet away from the door. This is new, they're crossing into a new area of their relationship and he's not giving her choices, not really.

(He feels reckless and anxious and a bit like a teenager, too.)

"Is there a reason, I mean, this is a little unusual, Will." He turns around, looks at her.

Just _looks_, for a while. She's shifting under his gaze, her eyes are blinking quickly, and he can see her telling herself to relax.

"It's not that you're not welcome, I never wanted you to think that, we've just been going, well, working toward, I guess…" her voice fades to the background.

She's still dressed in her pencil skirt, her sweater with bows and lace and Emma things, despite it being after seven. Terri had always changed into jeans, or sweats, or pajamas or something after work, but Emma is still together, still perfect, now, like this.

"Emma," he cuts her off, and she looks scared, but also a little like she's waiting, anticipating something. "Can we sit?" He finally asks, and she looks stunned before her shoulders drop, slump, even, for her, but her posture is still stiff and straight, controlled.

She leads them to the living room again, and they sit, her legs hanging over the side of the couch but her feet planted firmly on the carpet. Everything is pristine, and he's not surprised. What does surprise him, though, is the timelessness of her room. The colors are pastel and complimentary and soft, but not roses and Victorian and other designs with a connotation of the elderly, of musty inherited furniture that she needed to steam clean.

Her apartment is _tasteful_, in a word, and it almost upsets him. In a way, he wants to lash out. He wants someone else to be the mess he feels, their flaws to be open and out and easy to see.

Emma just waits, watches him before she asks if he'd like some water.

He does.

When she leaves, he turns on her TV, flips to the news he's become so used to hearing, to seeing.

One anchor is missing, her partner sits alone on screen, his spot on the left side of the screen making it all seem wrong, off-balance.

"…_reports that nearly every hospital in the area is full, due to a sudden increase of cases starting around seven this morning. Sources say that the vaccine has been given, but results are still pending."_

The words aren't exactly truths but too far from lies, and he waits for something, something new.

"_We've also just been told that the CDC has issued a statement about the strand of influenza that is spreading. Scientists across the country have been working to understand the virus, and have just recently come to a conclusion about the properties."_

The screen changes to another man, his suit pressed, obviously used to speaking for the organization, and Will listens as the man describes the virus, the _flu_.

"_It's come to our attention that the virus was brought into the United States by a lab in the downtown Chicago area. Researchers returned from a year-long expedition in an area Southeast of Asia with insect samples and animal remains. _

"_The current belief is that one of the samples carried remnants of the Spanish flu that originated in the area in the early 1900s."_

Will's throat is dry, feels like it's closing, and he takes the water from Emma without looking up, thanks her as she settles beside him, watches the screen, too.

"_This arbovirus is airborne and quite complicated, as it affects the white blood cells. The virus migrates quickly to the brain, where it replicates, leaving demyelinating lesions in the brain and spinal cord, complicating treatment further._

"_The cells replicate and attach themselves to both healthy and unhealthy white blood cells, which then attack each other due to this positive feedback loop."_

"Oh, my," Emma's soft voice echoes in the small room.

"_Unfortunately, these cells then attack each other, leaving the healthy white blood cells outnumbered and dangerously low."_

Will tries to swallow the lump in his throat down with the too cold water, almost choking.

He thinks about the numbers in the schools, the students leaving rapidly, gone for friends, for family, for themselves.

He thinks of Quinn and Sam and Puck and Kyla and Rachel.

_Outnumbered, and dangerously low_.


End file.
